LIBRARY 

Ufiiv:  ;-:  •  II  Y  OF 
C/Li,  GKNIA 

SAN  DiEGO        , 


AUNT   JANE    OF   KENTUCKY 


Aunt  Jane 
of  Kentucky 


BY 

ELIZA   CALVERT   HALL 


With  a  Frontispiece  and  Page  Decorations  by 
BELJLAH   STRONG 


Boston 

Little,  Brown,  and  Company 
1907 


COPYRIGHT,  1898,  1899,  1900, 
BY  JOHN  BRISBANE  WALKER. 

COPYRIGHT,  1904, 
BY  COSMOPOLITAN  PUBLISHING  COMPANY. 

COPYRIGHT,  1907, 
BY  LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY. 


All  riyhta  referred 
Published      March,       1907. 


8.  J.  PARKHILI.  &  Co.,  BOSTON,  U.  S.  A. 


TO 

MY   MOTHER   AND    FATHER 

I  DEDICATE  THIS  BOOK 


X8 


«n 

# 


-Q.S 


I.   SALLY  ANN'S  EXPERIENCE  1 

II.   THE  NEW  ORGAN       .      .  29 

III.  AUNT  JANE'S  ALBUM       .  53 

IV.  '' SWEET  DAY  OK  REST".  83 
V.    MILLY  BAKER'S  BOY       .  105 

VI.   THE  BAPTIZING  AT  KIT 
TLE  CREEK  .      .      .      .141 

VII.    I  low  SAM  AMOS  RODE  IN 

THE  TOURNAMENT  .      .  1<>!) 

A  III.  MARY  ANDREWS'  DINNER 
PARTY    193 

IX.   THE  GARDENS  OF   MEM 
ORY  .      .                         .  247 


L^ 


>"i:~ 

^ 


"  THERE  is  not  an  existence  about  us  but  at  first  seems 
colorless,  dreary,  lethargic:  what  can  our  soul  have  in 
common  with  that  of  an  elderly  spinster,  a  slow-witted  plow 
man,  a  miser  who  worships  his  gold  ?  .  .  .  .  But  ....  the 
emotion  that  lived  and  died  in  an  old-fashioned  country 
parlor  shall  as  mightily  stir  our  heart,  shall  as  unerringly 
find  its  way  to  the  deepest  sources  of  life  as  the  majestic 
passion  that  ruled  the  life  of  a  king  and  shed  its  triumphant 
luster  from  the  dazzling  height  of  a  throne." — Maeterlinck. 


SALLY   ANN  S    EXPERIENCE 

E  right  in  and  set  down.  I  was  jest 
wishin'  I  had  somebody  to  talk  to.  Take 
that  chair  right  by  the  door  so's  you  can  get  the 
breeze." 

And  Aunt  Jane  beamed  at  me  over  her  silver- rimmed 
spectacles  and  hitched  her  own  chair  a  little  to  one 
side,  in  order  to  give  me  the  full  benefit  of  the  wind 
that  was  blowing  softly  through  the  white-curtained 

3 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

window,  and  carrying  into  the  room  the  heavenliest 
odors  from  a  field  of  clover  that  lay  in  full  bloom 
just  across  the  road.  For  it  was  June  in  Kentucky, 
and  clover  and  blue-grass  were  running  sweet  riot  over 
the  face  of  the  earth. 

Aunt  Jane  and  her  room  together  always  carried 
me  back  to  a  dead  and  gone  generation.  There  was 
a  rag  carpet  on  the  floor,  of  the  "hit-or-miss"  pattern; 
the  chairs  were  ancient  Shaker  rockers,  some  with 
homely  "shuck"  bottoms,  and'each  had  a  tidy  of  snowy 
thread  or  crochet  cotton  fastened  primly  over  the  back. 
The  high  bed  and  bureau  and  a  shining  mahogany 
table  suggested  an  era  of  "plain  living"  far,  far  re 
mote  from  the  day  of  Turkish  rugs  and  Japanese 
bric-a-brac,  and  Aunt  Jane  was  in  perfect  correspond 
ence  with  her  environment.  She  wore  a  purple  calico 
dress,  rather  short  and  scant;  a  gingham  apron,  with 
a  capacious  pocket,  in  which  she  always  carried  knit 
ting:  or  some  other  "handy  work";  a  white  handkcr- 

O  v 

chief  was  laid  primly  around  the  wrinkled  throat  and 
fastened  with  a  pin  containing  a  lock  of  gray  hair; 
her  cap  was  of  black  lace  and  lutestring  ribbon,  not 
one  of  the  butterfly  affairs  that  perch  on  the  top  of 
the  puffs  and  frizzes  of  the  modern  old  lady,  but  a 

4 


SALLY    ANN'S    EXPERIENCE 

substantial  structure  that  covered  her  whole  head  and 
was  tied  securely  under  her  chin.  She  talked  in  a 
sweet  old  treble  with  a  little  lisp,  caused  by  the  absence 
of  teeth,  and  her  laugh  was  as  clear  and  joyous  as  a 
young  girl's. 

"Yes,  I'm  a-piecin'  quilts  again,"  she  said,  snipping 
away  at  the  bits  of  calico  in  her  lap.  "I  did  say  I  was 
done  with  that  sort  o'  work;  but  this  mornin'  I  was 
rummagin'  around  up  in  the  garret,  and  I  come  across 
this  bundle  of  pieces,  and  thinks  I,  'I  reckon  it's  intended 
for  me  to  piece  one  more  quilt  before  I  die;'  I  must  'a' 
put  'em  there  thirty  years  ago  and  clean  forgot  'em, 
and  I've  been  settin'  here  all  the  evenin'  cuttin'  'em 
and  thinkin'  about  old  times. 

"Jest  feel  o'  that,"  she  continued,  tossing  some  scraps 
into  my  lap.  "There  ain't  any  such  caliker  nowadays. 
This  ain't  your  five-cent  stuff  that  fades  in  the  first 
washin'  and  wears  out  in  the  second.  A  caliker  dress 
was  somethin'  worth  buyin'  and  worth  makin'  up  in 
them  days.  That  blue-flowered  piece  was  a  dress  I  got 
the  spring  before  Abram  died.  When  I  put  on  mournin' 
it  was  as  good  as  new,  and  I  give  it  to  sister  Mary. 
That  one  with  the  green  ground  and  white  figger  was 
my  niece  Rebecca's.  She  wore  it  for  the  first  time  to 


AUNT   JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

the  County  Fair  the  year  I  took  the  premium  on  my 
salt-risin'  bread  and  sponge  cake.  This  black-an'- 
white  piece  Sally  Ann  Flint  give  me.  I  ricollect  'twas 
in  blackberry  time,  and  I'd  been  out  in  the  big  pasture 
pickin'  some  for  supper,  and  I  stopped  in  at  Sally  Ann's 
for  a  drink  o'  water  on  my  way  back.  She  was  cuttin' 
out  this  dress." 

Aunt  Jane  broke  off  with  a  little  soprano  laugh. 

"Did  I  ever  tell  you  about  Sally  Ann's  experience?" 
she  said,  as  she  laid  two  three-cornered  pieces  together 
and  began  to  sew  with  her  slender,  nervous  old  fingers. 

To  find  Aunt  Jane  alone  and  in  a  reminiscent  mood ! 
This  was  delightful. 

"Do  tell  me,"  I  said. 

Aunt  Jane  was  silent  for  a  few  moments.  She 
always  made  this  pause  before  beginning  a  story,  and 
there  was  something  impressive  about  it.  I  used  to 
think  she  was  making  an  invocation  to  the  goddess  of 
Memory. 

"Twas  forty  years  ago,"  she  began  musingly,  "and 
the  way  of  it  was  this.  Our  church  was  considerably 
out  o'  fix.  It  needed  a  new  roof.  Some  o'  the  winder 
lights  was  out,  and  the  floor  was  as  bare  as  your  hand, 
and  always  had  been.  The  men  folks  managed  to  git 

6 


SALLY    ANN'S    EXPERIENCE 

the  roof  shingled  and  the  winders  fixed,  and  us  women 
in  the  Mite  Society  concluded  we'd  git  a  cyarpet.  We'd 
been  savin'  up  our  money  for  some  time,  and  we  had 
about  twelve  dollars.  I  ricollect  what  a  argument  we 
had,  for  some  of  us  wanted  the  cyarpet,  and  some 
wanted  to  give  it  to  furrin  missions,  as  we'd  set  out  to 
do  at  first.  Sally  Ann  was  the  one  that  settled  it.  She 
says  at  last  —  Sally  Ann  was  in  favor  of  the  cyarpet  — 
she  says,  'Well,  if  any  of  the  heathen  fails  to  hear  the 
gospel  on  account  of  our  gittin'  this  cyarpet,  they'll  be 
saved  anyhow,  so  Parson  Page  says.  And  if  we  send 
the  money  and  they  do  hear  the  gospel,  like  as  not  they 
won't  repent,  and  then  they're  certain  to  be  damned. 
And  it  seems  to  me  as  long  as  we  ain't  sure  what  they'll 
do,  we  might  as  well  keep  the  money  and  git  the  cyarpet. 
I  never  did  see  much  sense  anyhow,'  says  she,  'in  givin' 
people  a  chance  to  damn  theirselves.' 

"Well,  we  decided  to  take  Sally  Ann's  advice,  and 
we  was  talkin'  about  app'intin'  a  committee  to  go  to 
town  the  follerin'  Monday  and  pick  out  the  cyarpet, 
when  all  at  once  'Lizabeth  Taylor  —  she  was  our 
treasurer  —  she  spoke  up,  and  says  she,  'There  ain't 
any  use  app'intin'  that  committee.  The  money's  gone,' 
she  says,  sort  o'  short  and  quick.  'I  kept  it  in  my  top 

7 


AUNT   JANE    OF   KENTUCKY 

bureau  drawer,  and  when  I  went  for  it  yesterday,  it  was 
gone.  I'll  pay  it  back  if  I'm  ever  able,  but  I  ain't  able 
now.'  And  with  that  she  got  up  and  walked  out  o' 
the  room,  before  any  one  could  say  a  word,  and  we  seen 
her  goin'  down  the  road  lookin'  straight  before  her  and 
walkin'  right  fast. 

"And  we  —  we  set  there  and  stared  at  each  other  in 
a  sort  o'  dazed  way.  I  could  see  that  everybody  was 
thinkin'  the  same  thing,  but  nobody  said  a  word,  till 
our  minister's  wrife  —  she  was  as  good  a  woman  as  ever 
lived  —  she  says,  'Judge  not* 

"Them  two  wrords  was  jest  like  a  sermon  to  us. 
Then  Sally  Ann  spoke  up  and  says:  'For  the  Lord's 
sake,  don't  let  the  men  folks  know  anything  about  this. 
They're  always  sayin'  that  women  ain't  fit  to  handle 
money,  and  I  for  one  don't  want  to  give  'em  any  more 
ground  to  stand  on  than  they've  already  got.' 

"So  we  agreed  to  say  nothin'  about  it,  and  all  of  us 
kept  our  promise  except  Milly  Amos.  She  had  mighty 
little  sense  to  begin  with,  and  havin'  been  married  only 
about  two  months,  she'd  about  lost  that  little.  So  next 
mornin'  I  happened  to  meet  Sam  Amos,  and  he  says  to 
me,  'Aunt  Jane,  how  much  money  have  you  w7omen  got 
to'rds  the  new  cyarpet  for  the  church  ? '  I  looked  him 

8 


SALLY    ANN'S    EXPERIENCE 

square  in  the  face,  and  I  says,  'Are  you  a  member  of  the 
Ladies'  Mite  Society  of  Goshen  church,  Sam  Amos? 
For  if  you  are,  you  already  know  how  much  money  we've 
got,  and  if  you  ain't,  you've  got  no  business  knowin'. 
And,  furthermore,'  says  I,  'there's  some  women  that 
can't  keep  a  secret  and  a  promise,  and  some  that  can, 
and  7  can.'  And  that  settled  him. 

"Well,  'Lizabeth  never  showed  her  face  outside  her 
door  for  more'n  a  month  afterwards,  and  a  more  pitiful- 
lookin'  creatur'  you  never  saw  than  she  was  when  she 
come  out  to  prayer-mectin'  the  night  Sally  Ann  give  her 
experience.  She  set  'way  back  in  the  church,  and  she 
was  as  pale  and  peaked  as  if  she  had  been  through  a 
siege  of  typhoid.  I  ricollect  it  all  as  if  it  had  been  yester 
day.  We  sung  '  Sweet  Hour  of  Prayer,'  and  Parson  Page 
prayed,  and  then  called  on  the  brethren  to  say  anything 
they  might  feel  called  on  to  say  concernin'  their  experi 
ence  in  the  past  week.  Old  Uncle  Jim  Matthews  begun 
to  clear  his  throat,  and  I  knew,  as  well  as  I  knew  my 
name,  he  was  fixin'  to  git  up  and  tell  how  precious  the 
Lord  had  been  to  his  soul,  jest  like  he'd  been  doin'  every 
Wednesday  night  for  twenty  years.  But  before  he  got 
started,  here  come  'Lizabeth  walkin'  down  the  side  aisle 
and  stopped  right  in  front  o'  the  pulpit. 

9 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

"I've  somethin'  to  say,'  she  says.  'It's  been  on  my 
mind  till  I  can't  stand  it  any  longer.  I've  got  to  tell  it, 
or  I'll  go  crazy.  It  was  me  that  took  that  cyarpct 
money.  I  only  meant  to  borrow  it.  I  thought  sure  I'd 
be  able  to  pay  it  back  before  it  was  wanted.  But  things 
went  wrong,  and  I  ain't  known  a  peaceful  minute  since, 
and  never  shall  again,  I  reckon.  I  took  it  to  pay  my 
way  up  to  Louisville,  the  time  I  got  the  news  that  Mary 
was  dyin'.' 

"Mary  was  her  daughter  by  her  first  husband,  you 
see.  'I  begged  Jacob  to  give  me  the  money  to  go  on,' 
says  she,  'and  he  wouldn't  do  it.  I  tried  to  give  up  and 
stay,  but  I  jest  couldn't.  Mary  was  all  I  had  in  the 
world;  and  maybe  you  that  has  children  can  put  your 
self  in  my  place,  and  know  what  it  would  be  to  hear  your 
only  child  callin'toyou  from  her  death-bed,  and  you  not 
able  to  go  to  her.  I  asked  Jacob  three  times  for  the 
money,'  she  says,  'and  when  I  found  he  wouldn't  give 
it  to  me,  I  said  to  myself,  "I'm  goin'  anyhow."  I  got 
down  on  my  knees,'  says  she,  'and  asked  the  Lord  to 
show  me  a  way,  and  I  felt  sure  he  would.  As  soon  as 
Jacob  had  eat  his  breakfast  and  gone  out  on  the  farm, 
I  dressed  myself,  and  as  I  opened  the  top  bureau 
drawer  to  get  out  my  best  collar,  I  saw  the  missionary 

10 


SALLY    ANN'S    EXPERIENCE 

money.  It  come  right  into  my  head,'  says  she,  'that 
maybe  this  was  the  answer  to  my  prayer;  maybe  I  could 
borrow  this  money,  and  pay  it  back  some  way  or  other 
before  it  was  called  for.  I  tried  to  put  it  out  o'  my  head, 
but  the  thought  kept  comin'  back;  and  when  I  went 
down  into  the  sittin'-room  to  get  Jacob's  cyarpetbag 
to  carry  a  few  things  in,  I  happened  to  look  up  at 
the  mantelpiece  and  saw  the  brass  candlesticks  with 
prisms  all  'round  'em  that  used  to  belong  to  my  mother; 
and  all  at  once  I  seemed  to  see  jest  what  the  Lord 
intended  for  me  to  do. 

"You  know,'  she  says,  'I  had  a  boarder  summer 
before  last  —  that  lady  from  Louisville — and  she  wanted 
them  candlesticks  the  worst  kind,  and  offered  me  fifteen 
dollars  for  'em.  I  wouldn't  part  with  'em  then,  but 
she  said  if  ever  I  wanted  to  sell  'em,  to  let  her  know,  and 
she  left  her  name  and  address  on  a  cyard.  I  went  to 
the  big  Bible  and  got  out  the  cyard,  and  I  packed  the 
candlesticks  in  the  cyarpetbag,  and  put  on  my  bonnet. 
When  I  opened  the  door  I  looked  up  the  road,  and  the 
first  thing  I  saw  was  Dave  Crawford  comin'  along  in 
his  new  buggy.  I  went  out  to  the  gate,  and  he  drew  up 
and  asked  me  if  I  was  goin'  to  town,  and  said  he'd  take 
me.  It  looked  like  the  Lord  was  leadin'  me  all  the 

11 


AUNT   JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

time,'  says  she,  'but  the  way  things  turned  out  it  must 
'a'  been  Satan.  I  got  to  Mary  just  two  hours  before 
she  died,  and  she  looked  up  in  my  face  and  says, 
"Mother,  I  knew  God  wouldn't  let  me  die  till  I'd  seen 
you  once  more." 

Here  Aunt  Jane  took  off  her  glasses  and  wiped  her 
eyes. 

"I  can't  tell  this  without  cryin'  to  save  my  life,"  said 
she;  "but  'Lizabeth  never  shed  a  tear.  She  looked  like 
she'd  got  past  cryin',  and  she  talked  straight  on  as  if 
she'd  made  up  her  mind  to  say  jest  so  much,  and  she'd 
die  if  she  didn't  git  to  say  it. 

:"As  soon  as  the  funeral  was  over,'  says  she,  'I  set 
out  to  find  the  lady  that  wanted  the  candlesticks.  She 
wasn't  at  home,  but  her  niece  was  there,  and  said  she'd 
heard  her  aunt  speak  of  the  candlesticks  often;  and 
she'd  be  home  in  a  few  days  and  would  send  me  the 
money  right  off.  I  come  home  thinkin'  it  was  all  right, 
and  I  kept  expectin'  the  money  every  day,  but  it  never 
come  till  day  before  yesterday.  I  wrote  three  times 
about  it,  but  I  never  got  a  word  from  her  till  Monday. 
She  had  just  got  home,  she  said,  and  hoped  I  hadn't 
been  inconvenienced  by  the  delay.  She  wrote  a  nice, 
polite  letter  and  sent  me  a  check  for  fifteen  dollars,  and 


SALLY    ANN'S    EXPERIENCE 

here  it  is.  I  wanted  to  confess  it  all  that  day  at  the  Mite 
Society,  but-  somehow  I  couldn't  till  I  had  the  money 
right  in  my  hand  to  pay  back.  If  the  lady  had  only 
come  back  when  her  niece  said  she  was  comin',  it  would 
all  have  turned  out  right,  but  I  reckon  it's  a  judgment  on 
me  for  meddling  with  the  Lord's  money.  God  only 
knows  what  I've  suffered,'  says  she,  'but  if  I  had  to  do 
it  over  again,  I  believe  I'd  do  it.  Mary  was  all  the  child 
I  had  in  the  world,  and  I  had  to  see  her  once  more 
before  she  died.  I've  been  a  member  of  this  church 
for  twenty  years,'  says  she,  'but  I  reckon  you'll  have  to 
turn  me  out  now.' 

"The  pore  thing  stood  there  tremblin'  and  holdin'  out 
the  check  as  if  she  expected  somebody  to  come  and  take 
it.  Old  Silas  Petty  was  glowerin'  at  her  from  under  his 
eyebrows,  and  it  put  me  in  mind  of  the  Pharisees  and 
the  woman  they  wanted  to  stone,  and  I  ricollect  thinkin', 
'Oh,  if  the  Lord  Jesus  would  jest  come  in  and  take  her 
part! '  And  while  we  all  set  there  like  a  passel  o'  mutes, 
Sally  Ann  got  up  and  marched  down  the  middle  aisle 
and  stood  right  by  'Lizabeth.  You  know  what  funny 
thoughts  people  will  have  sometimes. 

"Well,  I  felt  so  relieved.  It  popped  into  my  head 
all  at  once  that  we  didn't  need  the  Lord  after  all,  Sally 

13 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

Ann  would  do  jest  as  well.  It  seemed  sort  o'  like 
sacrilege,  but  I  couldn't  help  it. 

"Well,  Sally  Ann  looked  all  around  as  composed  as 
you  please,  and  says  she,  'I  reckon  if  anybody's  turned 
out  o'  this  church  on  account  o'  that  miserable  little 
money,  it'll  be  Jacob  and  not  'Lizabeth.  A  man  that 
won't  give  his  wife  money  to  go  to  her  dyin'  child  is  too 
mean  to  stay  in  a  Christian  church  anyhow;  and  I'd 
like  to  know  how  it  is  that  a  woman,  that  had  eight 
hundred  dollars  when  she  married,  has  to  go  to  her 
husband  and  git  down  on  her  knees  and  beg  for  what's 
her  own.  Where's  that  money  'Lizabeth  had  when  she 
married  you?'  says  she,  turnin'  round  and  lookin' 
Jacob  in  the  face.  'Down  in  that  ten-acre  medder  lot, 
ain't  it  ?  —  and  in  that  new  barn  you  built  last  spring. 
A  pretty  elder  you  are,  ain't  you?  Elders  don't  seem 
to  have  improved  much  since  Susannah's  times.  If 
there  ain't  one  sort  o'  meanness  in  'em  it's  another,' 
says  she. 

"Goodness  knows  what  she  would  'a'  said,  but  jest 

here  old  Deacon  Petty  rose  up.   And  says  he,  'Brethren,' 

—  and  he  spread  his  arms  out  and  waved  'em  up  and 

down  like  he  was  goin'  to  pray,  —  'brethren,  this  is  awful! 

If  this  woman  wants  to  give  her  religious  experience, 

14 


SALLY   ANN'S    EXPERIENCE 

why,'  says  he,  very  kind  and  condescending  'of  course 
she  can  do  so.  But  when  it  comes  to  a  woman  standin' 
up  in  the  house  of  the  Lord  and  revilin'  an  elder  as  this 
woman  is  doin',why,  I  tremble,'  says  he,  'for  the  church 
of  Christ.  For  don't  the  Apostle  Paul  say,  "Let  your 
women  keep  silence  in  the  church"?' 

"As  soon  as  he  named  the  'Postle  Paul,  Sally  Ann 
give  a  kind  of  snort.  Sally  Ann  was  terrible  free-spoken. 
And  when  Deacon  Petty  said  that,  she  jest  squared 
herself  like  she  intended  to  stand  there  till  judgment  day, 
and  says  she,  'The  'Postle  Paul  has  been  dead  ruther 
too  long  for  me  to  be  afraid  of  him.  And  I  never  heard 
of  him  app'intin'  Deacon  Petty  to  represent  him  in  this 
church.  If  the  'Postle  Paul  don't  like  what  I'm  sayin', 
let  him  rise  up  from  his  grave  in  Corinthians  or  Ephe- 
sians,  or  wherever  he's  buried,  and  say  so.  I've  got  a 
message  from  the  Lord  to  the  men  folks  of  this  church, 
and  I'm  goin'  to  deliver  it,  Paul  or  no  Paul,'  says  she. 
'And  as  for  you,  Silas  Petty,  I  ain't  forgot  the  time  I 
dropped  in  to  see  Maria  one  Saturday  night  and  found 
her  washin'  out  her  flannel  petticoat  and  dryin'  it  before 
the  fire.  And  every  time  I've  had  to  hear  you  lead  in 
prayer  since  then  I've  said  to  myself,  "Lord,  how  high 
can  a  man's  prayers  rise  toward  heaven  when  his  wife 

15 


AUNT   JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

ain't  got  but  one  flannel  skirt  to  her  name  ?  No  higher 
than  the  back  of  his  pew,  if  you'll  let  me  tell  it."  I 
knew  jest  how  it  was,'  said  Sally  Ann,  'as  well  as  if 
Maria'd  told  me.  She'd  been  havin'  the  milk  and  but 
ter  money  from  the  old  roan  cow  she'd  raised  from  a 
little  heifer,  and  jest  because  feed  was  scarce,  you'd 
sold  her  off  before  Maria  had  money  enough  to  buy  her 
winter  flannels.  I  can  give  my  experience,  can  I  ? 
Well,  that's  jest  what  I'm  a-doin','  says  she;  'and  while 
I'm  about  it,'  says  she,  'I'll  give  in  some  experience 
for  'Lizabeth  and  Maria  and  the  rest  of  the  women 
who,  betwixt  their  husbands  an'  the  'Postle  Paul,  have 
about  lost  all  the  gumption  and  grit  that  the  Lord 
started  them  out  with.  If  the  'Postle  Paul,'  says  she, 
'has  got  anything  to  say  about  a  woman  workin'  like 
a  slave  for  twenty-five  years  and  then  havin'  to  set  up 
an'  wash  out  her  clothes  Saturday  night,  so's  she  can 
go  to  church  clean  Sunday  mornin',  I'd  like  to  hear  it. 
But  don't  you  dare  to  say  anything  to  me  about  keepin' 
silence  in  the  church.  There  was  times  when  Paul 
says  he  didn't  know  whether  he  had  the  Spirit  of  God 
or  not,  and  I'm  certain  that  when  he  wrote  that  text  he 
wasn't  any  more  inspired  than  you  are,  Silas  Petty, 
when  you  tell  Maria  to  shut  her  mouth.' 

1C 


SALLY   ANN'S   EXPERIENCE 

"  Job  Taylor  was  settin*  right  in  front  of  Deacon  Petty, 
and  I  reckon  he  thought  his  time  was  comin'  next;  so 
he  gets  up,  easy-like,  with  his  red  bandanna  to  his 
mouth,  and  starts  out.  But  Sally  Ann  headed  him  off 
before  he'd  gone  six  steps,  and  says  she,  'There  ain't 
anything  the  matter  with  you,  Job  Taylor;  you  set 
right  down  and  hear  what  I've  got  to  say.  I've  knelt 
and  stood  through  enough  o'  your  long-winded  prayers, 
and  now  it's  my  time  to  talk  and  yours  to  listen.' 

"And  bless  your  life,  if  Job  didn't  set  down  as  meek 
as  Moses,  and  Sally  Ann  lit  right  into  him.  And  says 
she,  'I  reckon  you're  afraid  I'll  tell  some  o'  your  mean 
ness,  ain't  you  ?  And  the  only  thing  that  stands  in  my 
way  is  that  there's  so  much  to  tell  I  don't  know  where 
to  begin.  There  ain't  a  woman  in  this  church,'  says 
she,  'that  don't  know  how  Marthy  scrimped  and 
worked  and  saved  to  buy  her  a  new  set  o'  furniture,  and 
how  you  took  the  money  with  you  when  you  went  to 
Cincinnata,  the  spring  before  she  died,  and  come  back 
without  the  furniture.  And  when  she  asked  you  for 
the  money,  you  told  her  that  she  and  everything  she 
had  belonged  to  you,  and  that  your  mother's  old  furni 
ture  was  good  enough  for  anybody.  It's  my  belief,' 
says  she,  'that's  what  killed  Marthy.  Women  are 

17 


AUNT   JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

dyin'  every  day,  and  the  doctors  will  tell  you  it's  some 
new-fangled  disease  or  other,  when,  if  the  truth  was 
known,  it's  nothin'  but  wantin'  somethin'  they  can't 
git,  and  hopin'  and  waitin'  for  somethin'  that  never 
comes.  I've  watched  'em,  and  I  know.  The  night 
before  Marthy  died  she  says  to  me,  "Sally  Ann,"  says 
she,  "I  could  die  a  heap  peacefuler  if  I  jest  knew  the 
front  room  was  fixed  up  right  with  a  new  set  of  furni 
ture  for  the  funeral."'  And  Sally  Ann  p'inted  her 
finger  right  at  Job  and  says  she,  'I  said  it  then,  and  I 
say  it  now  to  your  face,  Job  Taylor,  you  killed  Marthy 
the  same  as  if  you'd  taken  her  by  the  throat  and  choked 
the  life  out  of  her.' 

"Mary  Ernbry,  Job's  sister-in-law,  was  settin'  right 
behind  me,  and  I  heard  her  say,  'Amen!'  as  fervent  as  if 
somebody  had  been  prayin'.  Job  set  there,  lookin' 
like  a  sheep-killin'  dog,  and  Sally  Ann  went  right  on. 
'I  know,'  says  she,  'the  law  gives  you  the  right  to 
your  wives'  earnin's  and  everything  they've  got,  down 
to  the  clothes  on  their  backs;  and  I've  always  said  there 
was  some  Kentucky  law  that  was  made  for  the  express 
purpose  of  ericouragin'  men  in  their  natural  meanness, 
—  a  p'int  in  which  the  Lord  knows  they  don't  need 
no  encouragin'.  There's  some  men/  says  she,  'that'll 

18 


SALLY   ANN'S    EXPERIENCE 

sneak  behind  the  'Postle  Paul  when  they're  plannin' 
any  meanness  against  their  wives,  and  some  that  runs 
to  the  law,  and  you're  one  of  the  law  kind.  But  mark 
my  words,'  says  she,  'one  of  these  days,  you  men  who've 
been  stealin'  your  wives'  property  and  defraudin'  'em. 
and  cheatin'  'em  out  o'  their  just  dues,  you'll  have  to 
stand  before  a  Judge  that  cares  mighty  little  for  Ken 
tucky  law;  and  all  the  law  and  all  the  Scripture  you  can 
bring  up  won't  save  you  from  goin'  where  the  rich  man 
went.' 

"I  can  see  Sally  Ann  right  now,"  and  Aunt  Jane 
pushed  her  glasses  up  on  her  forehead,  and  looked  with 
a  dreamy,  retrospective  gaze  through  the  doorway  and 
beyond,  where  swaying  elms  and  maples  were  whis 
pering  softly  to  each  other  as  the  breeze  touched  them. 
"She  had  on  her  old  black  poke-bonnet  and  some  black 
yarn  mitts,  and  she  didn't  come  nigh  up  to  Job's  shoul 
der,  but  Job  set  and  listened  as  if  he  jest  had  to.  I 
heard  Dave  Cra\vford  shufflin'  his  feet  and  clearin'  his 
throat  while  Sally  Ann  was  talkin'  to  Job.  Dave's 
farm  j'ined  Sally  Ann's,  and  they  had  a  lawsuit  once 
about  the  way  a  fence  ought  to  run,  and  Sally  Ann 
beat  him.  He  always  despised  Sally  Ann  after  that, 
and  used  to  call  her  a  'he- woman.'  Sally  Ann  heard 

19 


AUNT   JANE   OF   KENTUCKY 

the  shufflin',  and  as  soon  as  she  got  through  with  Job, 
she  turned  around  to  Dave,  and  says  she:  'Do  you 
think  your  hemmin'  and  scrapin'  is  goin'  to  stop  me, 
Dave  Crawford  ?  You're  one  o'  the  men  that  makes 
me  think  that  it's  better  to  be  a  Kentucky  horse  than 
a  Kentucky  woman.  Many's  the  time,'  says  she, 
'I've  seen  pore  July  with  her  head  tied  up,  crawlin' 
around  tryin'  to  cook  for  sixteen  harvest  hands,  and 
you  out  in  the  stable  cossetin'  up  a  sick  mare,  and 
rubbin'  down  your  three-year-olds  to  get  'em  in  trim 
for  the  fair.  Of  all  the  things  that's  hard  to  under 
stand,'  says  she,  'the  hardest  is  a  man  that  has  more 
mercy  on  his  horse  than  he  has  on  his  wife.  July's 
found  rest  at  last,'  says  she,  'out  in  the  graveyard; 
and  every  time  I  pass  your  house  I  thank  the  Lord 
that  you've  got  to  pay  a  good  price  for  your  cookin' 
now,  as  there  ain't  a  woman  in  the  country  fool  enough 
to  step  into  July's  shoes.' 

"But,  la!"  said  Aunt  Jane,  breaking  off  with  her 
happy  laugh,  —  the  laugh  of  one  who  revels  in  rich 
memories,  —  "what's  the  use  of  me  tellin'  all  this 
stuff  ?  The  long  and  the  short  of  it  is,  that  Sally  Ann 
had  her  say  about  nearly  every  man  in  the  church. 
She  told  how  Mary  Embry  had  to  cut  up  her  weddin' 

20 


SALLY    ANN'S    EXPERIENCE 

skirts  to  make  clothes  for  her  first  baby ;  and  how  John 
Martin  stopped  Hannah  one  day  when  she  was  car 
ry  in'  her  mother  a  pound  of  butter,  and  made  her  go 
back  and  put  the  butter  down  in  the  cellar;  and  how 
Lije  Davison  used  to  make  Ann  pay  him  for  every 
bit  of  chicken  feed,  and  then  take  half  the  egg 
money  because  the  chickens  got  into  his  garden; 
and  how  Abner  Page  give  his  wife  twenty-five  cents 
for  spcndin'  money  the  time  she  went  to  visit  her 
sister. 

!  "Sally  Ann  always  was  a  masterful  sort  of  woman, 
and  that  night  it  seemed  like  she  was  possessed.  The 
way  she  talked  made  me  think  of  the  Day  of  Pente 
cost  and  the  gift  of  tongues.  And  finally  she  got  to 
the  minister!  I'd  been  wonderin'  all  along  if  she  was 
goin'  to  let  him  off.  She  turned  around  to  where  he 
was  settin'  under  the  pulpit,  and  says  she,  'Brother 
Page,  you're  a  good  man,  but  you  ain't  so  good  you 
couldn't  be  better.  It  was  jest  last  week,'  says  she, 
'that  the  women  come  around  beggin'  money  to  buy 
you  a  new  suit  of  clothes  to  go  to  Presbytery  in;  and 
I  told  'em  if  it  was  to  get  Mis'  Page  a  new  dress,  I  was 
ready  to  give;  but  not  a  dime  was  I  goin'  to  give  to 
wards  puttin'  finery  on  a  man's  back.  I'm  tired  o' 

21 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

seein'  the  ministers  walk  up  into  the  pulpit  in  their 
slick  black  broadcloths,  and  their  wives  settin'  down 
in  the  pew  in  an  old  black  silk  that's  been  turned 
upside  down,  wrong  side  out,  and  hind  part  before, 
and  sponged,  and  pressed,  and  made  over  till  you 
can't  tell  whether  it's  silk,  or  caliker,  or  what.' 

"Well,  I  reckon  there  was  some  o'  the  women  that 
expected  the  roof  to  fall  down  on  us  when  Sally  Ann 
said  that  right  to  the  minister.  But  it  didn't  fall,  and 
Sally  Ann  went  straight  on.  'And  when  it  comes  to 
the  perseverance  of  the  saints  and  the  decrees  of  God,' 
says  she,  'there  ain't  many  can  preach  a  better  sermon; 
but  there's  some  of  your  sermons,'  says  she,  'that  ain't 
fit  for  much  but  kindlin'  fires.  There's  that  one  you 
preached  last  Sunday  on  the  twenty-fourth  verse  of 
the  fifth  chapter  of  Ephesians.  I  reckon  I've  heard 
about  a  hundred  and  fifty  sermons  on  that  text,  and  I 
reckon  I'll  keep  on  hearin'  'em  as  long  as  there  ain't 
anybody  but  men  to  do  the  preachin'.  Anybody 
would  think,'  says  she,  'that  you  preachers  was  struck 
blind  every  time  you  git  through  with  the  twenty- 
fourth  verse,  for  I  never  heard  a  sermon  on  the  twenty- 
fifth  verse.  I  believe  there's  men  in  this  church  that 
thinks  the  fifth  chapter  of  Ephesians  hasn't  got  but 

22 


SALLY   ANN'S    EXPERIENCE 

twenty-four  verses,  and  I'm  goin'  to  read  the  rest  of 
it  to  'em  for  once  anyhow.' 

"And  if  Sally  Ann  didn't  walk  right  up  into  the 
pulpit  same  as  if  she'd  been  ordained,  and  read  what 
Paul  said  about  men  lovin'  their  wives  as  Christ  loved 
the  church,  and  as  they  loved  their  own  bodies. 

:  'Now,'  says  she,  'if  Brother  Page  can  reconcile 
these  texts  with  what  Paul  says  about  women  sub- 
mittin'  and  bein'  subject,  he's  welcome  to  do  it.  But,' 
says  she,  'if  I  had  the  preachin'  to  do,  I  wouldn't  waste 
time  reconcilin'.  I'd  jest  say  that  when  Paul  told 
women  to  be  subject  to  their  husbands  in  everything, 
he  wasn't  inspired;  and  when  he  told  men  to  love  their 
wives  as  their  own  bodies,  he  was  inspired;  and  I'd 
like  to  see  the  Presbytery  that  could  silence  me  from 
preachin'  as  long  as  I  wanted  to  preach.  As  for 
turnin'  out  o'  the  church,'  says  she,  'I'd  like  to  know 
who's  to  do  the  turnin'  out.  When  the  disciples  brought 
that  woman  to  Christ  there  wasn't  a  man  in  the  crowd 
fit  to  cast  a  stone  at  her;  and  if  there's  any  man  nowa 
days  good  enough  to  set  in  judgment  on  a  woman,  his 
name  ain't  on  the  rolls  of  Goshen  church.  If  'Liza- 
beth,'  says  she,  'had  as  much  common  sense  as  she's 
got  conscience,  she'd  know  that  the  matter  o'  that 

23 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

money  didn't  concern  nobody  but  our  Mite  Society, 
and  we  women  can  settle  it  without  any  help  from  you 
deacons  and  elders.' 

"Well,  I  reckon  Parson  Page  thought  if  he  didn't 
head  Sally  Ann  off  some  way  or  other  she'd  go  on  all 
night;  so  when  she  kind  o'  stopped  for  breath  and  shut 
up  the  big  Bible,  he  grabbed  a  hymn-book  and  says: 

'"Let  us  sing  "Blest  be  the  Tie  that  Binds.'" 

"He  struck  up  the  tune  himself;  and  about  the  middle 
of  the  first  verse  Mis'  Page  got  up  and  went  over  to 
wyhere  'Lizabeth  was  standin',  and  give  her  the  right 
hand  of  fellowship,  and  then  Mis'  Petty  did  the  same; 
and  first  thing  we  knew  we  was  all  around  her  shakin' 
hands  and  huggin'  her  and  cryin'  over  her.  'Twas  a 
reg'lar  love-feast;  and  we  went  home  feelin'  like  we'd 
been  through  a  big  protracted  meetin'  and  got  religion 
over  again. 

"'Twasn't  more'n  a  wreek  till  'Lizabeth  was  down 
with  slow  fever  —  nervous  collapse,  old  Dr.  Pendle- 
ton  called  it.  We  took  turns  nursin'  her,  and  one  day 
she  looked  up  in  my  face  and  says,  'Jane,  I  know  now 
what  the  mercy  of  the  Lord  is.'" 

Here  Aunt  Jane  paused,  and  began  to  cut  three- 
cornered  pieces  out  of  a  time-stained  square  of  fiow- 

24 


SALLY    ANN'S    EXPERIENCE 

cred  chintz.  The  quilt  was  to  be  of  the  wild-goose 
pattern.  There  was  a  drowsy  hum  from  the  bee 
hive  near  the  window,  and  the  shadows  were  lengthen 
ing  as  sunset  approached. 

"One  queer  thing  about  it,"  she  resumed,  "was 
that  while  Sally  Ann  was  talkin',  not  one  of  us  felt 
like  laughin'.  We  set  there  as  solemn  as  if  parson  was 
preachin'  to  us  on  'lection  and  predestination.  But 
whenever  I  think  about  it  now,  I  laugh  fit  to  kill.  And 
I've  thought  many  a  time  that  Sally  Ann's  plain  talk 
to  them  men  done  more  good  than  all  the  sermons  us 
wTomen  had  had  preached  to  us  about  bein'  'shame 
faced'  and  'submittin"  ourselves  to  our  husbands,  for 
every  one  o'  them  women  come  out  in  new  clothes 
that  spring,  and  such  a  change  as  it  made  in  some  of 
'em!  I  wouldn't  be  surprised  if  she  did  have  a  mes 
sage  to  deliver,  jest  as  she  said.  The  Bible  says  an 
ass  spoke  up  once  and  reproved  a  man,  and  I  reckon 
if  an  ass  can  reprove  a  man,  so  can  a  woman.  And 
it  looks  to  me  like  men  stand  in  need  of  reprovin'  now 
as  much  as  they  did  in  Balaam's  days. 

"Jacob  died  the  follerin'  fall,  and  'Lizabeth  got 
shed  of  her  troubles.  The  triflin'  scamp  never  married 
her  for  anything  but  her  money. 

25 


AUNT   JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

"Things  is  different  from  what  they  used  to  be," 
she  went  on,  as  she  folded  her  pieces  into  a  compact 
bundle  and  tied  it  with  a  piece  of  gray  yarn.  "My 
son-in-law  was  tellin'  me  last  summer  how  a  passel  o' 
women  kept  goin'  up  to  Frankfort  and  so  pesterin'  the 
Legislatur',  that  they  had  to  change  the  laws  to  git 
rid  of  'em.  So  married  women  now  has  all  the  prop 
erty  rights  they  want,  and  more'n  some  of  'cm  has 
sense  to  use,  I  reckon." 

"How  about  you  and  Uncle  Abram?"  I  suggested. 
"Didn't  Sally  Ann  say  anything  about  you  in  her 
experience?" 

Aunt  Jane's  black  eyes  snapped  with  some  of  the 
fire  of  her  long-past  youth.  "La!  no,  child,"  she  said. 
"Abram  never  was  that  kind  of  a  man,  and  I  never 
was  that  kind  of  a  woman.  I  ricollect  as  we  was 
walkin'  home  that  night  Abram  says,  sort  o'  humble- 
like:  'Jane,  hadn't  you  better  git  that  brown  merino 
you  was  lookin'  at  last  County  Court  day?' 

"And  I  says,  'Don't  you  worry  about  that  brown 
merino,  Abram.  It's  a-lyin'  in  my  bottom  drawer 
right  now.  I  told  the  storekeeper  to  cut  it  off  jest  as 
soon  as  your  back  was  turned,  and  Mis'  Simpson  is 
goin'  to  make  it  next  week.'  And  Abram  he  jest 

20 


SALLY   ANN'S    EXPERIENCE 

laughed,  and  says,  'Well,  Jane,  I  never  saw  your  beat.' 
You  see,  I  never  was  any  hand  at  'submittin"  myself 
to  my  husband,  like  some  women.  I've  often  won 
dered  if  Abram  wouldn't  'a'  been  jest  like  Silas  Petty 
if  I'd  been  like  Maria.  I've  noticed  that  whenever  a 
woman's  willin'  to  be  imposed  upon,  there's  always 
a  man  standin'  'round  ready  to  do  the  imposin'.  I 
never  went  to  a  law-book  to  find  out  what  my  rights 
was.  I  did  my  duty  faithful  to  Abram,  and  when  I 
wanted  anything  I  went  and  got  it,  and  Abram  paid 
for  it,  and  I  can't  see  but  what  we  got  on  jest  as  well 
as  we'd  'a'  done  if  I'd  a-' submitted'  myself." 

Longer  and  longer  grew  the  shadows,  and  the  faint 
tinkle  of  bells  came  in  through  the  windows.  The 
cows  were  beginning  to  come  home.  The  spell  of 
Aunt  Jane's  dramatic  art  was  upon  me.  I  began  to 
feel  that  my  own  personality  had  somehow  slipped 
away  from  me,  and  those  dead  people,  evoked  from 
their  graves  by  an  old  woman's  histrionism,  seemed 
more  real  to  me  than  my  living,  breathing  self. 

"There  now,  I've  talked  you  clean  to  death,"  she 
said  with  a  happy  laugh,  as  I  rose  to  go.  "But  we've 
had  a  real  nice  time,  and  I'm  glad  you  come." 

The  sun  was  almost  down  as  I  walked  slowly  away. 
27 


AUNT   JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

When  I  looked  back,  at  the  turn  of  the  road,  Aunt 
Jane  was  standing  on  the  doorstep,  shading  her  eyes 
and  peering  across  the  level  fields.  I  knew  what  it 
meant.  Beyond  the  fields  was  a  hit  of  woodland,  and 
in  one  corner  of  that  you  might,  if  your  eyesight  was 
good,  discern  here  and  there  a  glimpse  of  white.  It 
was  the  old  burying-ground  of  (zoshen  church;  and 
I  knew  by  the  strained  attitude  and  intent  gaze  of  the 
watcher  in  the  door  that  somewhere  in  the  sunlit  space 
between  Aunt  Jane's  doorstep  and  the  little  country 
graveyard,  the  souls  of  the  living  and  the  dead  were 
keeping  a  silent  tryst. 


i-  K>n  <:.  < 

fc  :f?%~: 

.*b-i»*y   '*; 

r,T^ 


II 

THE    NEW   ORGAN 


II 


THE   NEW   ORGAN 

ITTIN'  a  new  organ  is  a  mighty  different 
thing  nowadays  from  what  it  was  when  I  was 
young,"  said  Aunt  Jane  judicially,  as  she  lifted  a 
panful  of  yellow  harvest  apples  from  the  table  and 
began  to  peel  them  for  dumplings. 

Potatoes,  peas,  and  asparagus  were  bubbling  on  the 
stove,  and  the  dumplings  were  in  honor  of  the  invited 
guest,  who  had  begged  the  privilege  of  staying  in  the 

31 


AUNT   JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

kitchen  awhile.  Aunt  Jane  was  one  of  those  rare 
housekeepers  whose  kitchens  are  more  attractive  than 
the  parlors  of  other  people. 

"And  gittin'  religion  is  different,  too,"  she  con 
tinued,  propping  her  feet  on  the  round  of  a  chair  for 
the  greater  comfort  and  convenience  of  her  old  knees. 
"Both  of  'em  is  a  heap  easier  than  they  used  to  be, 
and  the  organs  is  a  heap  better.  I  don't  know  whether 
the  religion's  any  better  or  not.  You  know  I  went  up 
to '  my  daughter  Mary  Frances'  last  week,  and  the 
folks  up  there  was  havin'  a  big  meetin'  in  the  Taber- 
nicle,  and  that's  how  come  me  to  be  thinkin'  about 
organs. 

"The  preacher  was  an  evangelist,  as  they  call  him, 
Sam  Joynes,  from  'way  down  South.  In  my  day  he'd 
'a'  been  called  the  Rev.  Samuel  Joynes.  Folks  didn't 
call  their  preachers  Tom,  Dick,  and  Harry,  and  Jim 
and  Sam,  like  they  do  now.  I'd  like  to  'a'  seen  any 
body  callin'  Parson  Page  'Lern  Page.'  He  was  the 
Rev.  Lemuel  Page,  and  don't  you  forgit  it.  But  things 
is  different,  as  I  said  awrhile  ago,  aVid  even  the  little 
boys  says  'Sam  Joynes,'  jest  like  he  played  marbles 
with  'em  every  day.  I  went  to  the  Tabernicle  three 
or  four  times;  and  of  all  the  preachers  that  ever  I 

32 


THE    NEW    ORGAN 

heard,  he  certainly  is  the  beatenest.  Why,  I  ain't 
laughed  so  much  since  me  and  Abram  went  to  Bar- 
num's  circus,  the  year  before  the  war.  He  was  preach- 
in'  one  day  about  cleanliness  bein'  next  to  godliness, 
which  it  certainly  is,  and  he  says,  'You  old  skunk, 
you!'  But,  la!  the  worse  names  he  called  'em  the 
better  they  'peared  to  like  it,  and  sinners  was  converted 
wholesale  every  time  he  preached.  But  there  wasn't 
no  goin'  to  the  mourners'  bench  and  mournin'  for  your 
sins  and  havin'  people  prayin'  and  cryin'  over  you. 
They  jest  set  and  laughed  and  grinned  while  he  was 
gittin'  off  his  jokes,  and  then  they'd  go  up  and  shake 
hands  \vith  him,  and  there  they  was  all  saved  and 
ready  to  be  baptized  and  taken  into  the  church." 

Just  here  the  old  yellow  rooster  fluttered  up  to  the 
door-step  and  gave  a  hoarse,  ominous  crow. 

"There,  now!  You  hear  that?"  said  Aunt  Jane,  as 
she  tossed  him  a  golden  peeling  from  her  pan. 
"There's  some  folks  that  gives  right  up  and  looks  for 
sickness  or  death  or  bad  news  every  time  a  rooster 
crows  in  the  door.  But  I  never  let  such  things  bother 
me.  The  Bible  says  that  nobody  knows  what  a  day 
may  bring  forth,  and  if  I  don't  know,  it  ain't  likely  my 
old  yeller  rooster  does. 

33 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

"What  was  I  talkin'  about?  Oh,  yes  —  the  big 
meetin'.  Well,  I  never  was  any  hand  to  say  that  old 
ways  is  best,  and  I  don't  say  so  now.  If  you  can  con 
vert  a  man  by  callin'  him  a  polecat,  why,  call  him  one, 
of  course.  And  mournin'  ain't  always  a  sign  o'  true 
repentance.  They  used  to  tell  how  Silas  Petty  mourned 
for  forty  days,  and,  as  Sally  Ann  said,  he  had  about  as 
much  religion  as  old  Dan  Tucker's  Derby  ram. 

"However,  it  was  the  organ  I  set  out  to  tell  about. 
It's  jest  like  me  to  wander  away  from  the  p'int.  Abram 
always  said  a  text  would  have  to  be  made  like  a  post 
age  stamp  for  me  to  stick  to  it.  You  see,  they'd  jest 
got  a  fine  new  organ  at  Mary  Frances'  church,  and 
she  was  tellin'  me  how  they  paid  for  it.  One  man 
give  five  hundred  dollars,  and  another  give  three  hun 
dred;  then  they  collected  four  or  five  hundred  amongst 
the  other  members,  and  give  a  lawn  party  and  a  straw 
berry  festival  and  raised  another  hundred.  It  set  me 
to  thinkin'  o'  the  time  us  women  got  the  organ  for 
Goshen  church.  It  wasn't  any  light  matter,  for,  be 
sides  the  money  it  took  us  nearly  three  years  to  raise, 
there  was  the  opposition.  Come  to  think  of  it,  we 
raised  more  opposition  than  we  did  money." 

And  Aunt  Jane  laughed  a  blithe  laugh  and  tossed 
34 


another  peeling  to  the  yellow  rooster,  who  had  dropped 
the  role  of  harbinger  of  evil  and  was  posing  as  a  humble 
suppliant. 

"An  organ  in  them  days,  honey,  was  jest  a  wedge  to 
split  the  church  half  in  two.  It  was  the  new  cyarpet 
that  brought  on  the  organ.  You  know  how  it  is  with 
yourself;  you  git  a  new  dress,  and  then  you've  got  to 
have  a  new  bonnet,  and  then  you  can't  wear  your  old 
shoes  and  gloves  with  a  new  dress  and  a  new  bonnet, 
and  the  first  thing  you  know  you've  spent  five  times  as 
much  as  you  set  out  to  spend.  That's  the  way  it  was 
with  us  about  the  cyarpet  and  the  organ  and  the  pulpit 
chairs  and  the  communion  set. 

"Most  o'  the  men  folks  wTas  against  the  organ  from 
the  start,  and  Silas  Petty  was  the  foremost.  Silas  made 
a  p'int  of  goin'  against  everything  that  women  favored. 
Sally  Ann  used  to  say  that  if  a  woman  was  to  come  up 
to  him  and  say,  'Le's  go  to  heaven,'  Silas  would  start 
off  towards  the  other  place  right  at  once;  he  was  jest 
that  mulish  and  contrairy.  He  met  Sally  Ann  one  day, 
and  says  he,  'Jest  give  you  women  rope  enough  and 
you'll  turn  the  house  o'  the  Lord  into  a  reg'lar  toy 
shop.'  And  Sally  Ann  she  says,  'You'd  better  go 
home,  Silas,  and  read  the  book  of  Exodus.  If  the 

35 


AUNT   JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

Lord  told  Moses  how  to  build  the  Tabernicle  with  the 
goats'  skins  and  rams'  skins  and  blue  and  purple  and 
scarlet  and  fine  linen  and  candlesticks  with  six  branches, 
I  reckon  he  won't  object  to  a  few  yards  o'  cyarpetin' 
and  a  little  organ  in  Goshen  church.' 

"Sally  Ann  always  had  an  answer  ready,  and  I  used 
to  think  she  knew  more  about  the  Bible  than  Parson 
Page  did  himself. 

"Of  course  Uncle  Jim  Matthews  didn't  want  the 
organ;  he  was  afraid  it  might  interfere  with  his  singin'. 
Job  Taylor  always  stood  up  for  Silas,  so  he  didn't  want 
it;  and  Parson  Page  never  opened  his  mouth  one  way 
or  the  other.  He  was  one  o'  those  men  that  tries  to 
set  on  both  sides  o'  the  fence  at  once,  and  he'd  set  that 
way  so  long  he  was  a  mighty  good  hand  at  balancin' 
himself. 

"Us  women  didn't  say  much,  but  we  made  up  our 
minds  to  have  the  organ.  So  we  went  to  work  in  the 
Mite  Society,  and  in  less'n  three  years  we  had  enough 
money  to  git  it.  I've  often  wondered  how  many 
pounds  o'  butter  and  how  many  baskets  of  eggs  it 
took  to  raise  that  money.  I  reckon  if  they'd  'a'  been 
piled  up  on  top  of  each  other  they'd  'a'  reached  to 
the  top  o'  the  steeple.  The  women  of  Israel  brought 

36 


THE    NEW    ORGAN 

their  ear-rings  and  bracelets  to  help  build  the  Taber- 
nicle,  but  we  had  jest  our  egg  and  butter  money,  and 
the  second  year,  when  the  chicken  cholery  was  so 
bad,  our  prospects  looked  mighty  blue. 

"When  I  saw  that  big  organ  up  at  Danville,  I  couldn't 
help  thinkin'  about  the  little  thing  we  worked  so  hard 
to  git.  'Twasn't  much  bigger'n  a  washstand,  and  I 
reckon  if  I  was  to  hear  it  now,  I'd  think  it  was  mighty 
feeble  and  squeaky.  But  it  sounded  fine  enough  to  us 
in  them  days,  and,  little  as  it  was,  it  raised  a  disturbance 
for  miles  around. 

"When  it  come  down  from  Louisville,  Abram  went 
to  town  with  his  two-horse  wagon  and  brought  it  out 
and  set  it  up  in  our  parlor.  My  Jane  had  beentakin' 
lessons  in  town  all  winter,  so's  to  be  able  to  play  on  it. 

"We  had  a  right  good  choir  for  them  days;  the  only 
trouble  was  that  everybody  wanted  to  be  leader.  That's 
a  common  failin'  with  church  choirs,  I've  noticed. 
Milly  Amos  sung  soprano,  and  my  Jane  wrs  the  alto; 
John  Petty  sung  bass,  and  young  Sam  Crawford  tenor; 
and  as  for  Uncle  Jim  Matthews,  he  sung  everything, 
and  a  plenty  of  it,  too.  Milly  Amos  used  to  say  he 
was  worse'n  a  flea.  He'd  start  out  on  the  bass,  and 
first  thin"1  von  knew  he'd  be  singin'  tenor  with  Sam 

O       •-• 

37 


AUNT   JANE    OF   KENTUCKY 

Crawford;  and  by  the  time  Sam  was  good  and  mad, 
he'd  be  off  onto  the  alto  or  the  soprano.  He  was  one 
o'  these  meddlesome  old  creeturs  that  thinks  the  wrorld 
never  moved  till  they  got  into  it,  and  they've  got  to 
help  everybody  out  with  whatever  they  happen  to  be 
doin'.  You've  heard  o'  children  bein'  born  kickin'. 
Well,  Uncle  Jim  must  'a'  been  born  singin'.  I've  seen 
people  that  said  they  didn't  like  the  idea  o'  goin'  to 
heaven  and  standin'  around  a  throne  and  singin'  hymns 
for  ever  and  ever;  but  you  couldn't  'a'  pleased  Uncle 
Jim  better  than  to  set  him  do\vn  in  jest  that  sort  o' 
heaven.  Wherever  there  was  a  chance  to  get  in  some 
singin',  there  you'd  be  sure  to  find  Uncle  Jim.  Folks 
used  to  say  he  enjoyed  a  funeral  a  heap  better  than  he 
did  a  weddin',  'cause  he  could  sing  at  the  funeral, 
and  he  couldn't  at  the  weddin';  and  Sam  Crawford 
said  he  believed  if  Gabriel  was  to  come  down  and  blow 
his  trumpet,  Uncle  Jim  would  git  up  and  begin  to  sing. 
"It  wouldn't  'a'  been  so  bad  if  he'd  had  any  sort  of 
a  voice;  but  he'd  been  singin'  all  his  life  and  hollerin' 
at  protracted  meetin's  ever  since  he  got  religion,  till 
he'd  sung  and  hollered  all  the  music  out  of  his  voice, 
and  there  wasn't  much  left  but  the  old  creaky  ma 
chinery.  It  used  to  make  me  think  of  an  old  rickety 

38 


THE    NEW    ORGAN 

house  with  the  blinds  flappin'  in  the  wind.  It  morti 
fied  us  terrible  to  have  any  of  the  Methodists  or  Bab- 
tists  come  to  our  church.  We  was  sort  o'  used  to  the 
old  man's  capers,  but  people  that  wasn't  couldn't  keep 
a  straight  face  when  the  singin'  begun,  and  it  took 
more  grace  than  any  of  us  had  to  keep  from  gittin'  mad 
when  we  seen  people  from  another  church  laughin'  at 
our  choir. 

"The  Babtists  had  a  powerful  protracted  meetin' 
one  winter.  Uncle  Jim  was  there  to  help  with  the 
singin',  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  he  begun  to  git 
mightily  interested  in  Babtist  doctrines.  Used  to  go 
home  with  'em  after  church  and  talk  about  Greek  and 
Hebrew  words  till  the  clock  struck  twelve.  And  one 
communion  Sunday  he  got  up  solemn  as  a  owl  and 
marched  out  o'  church  jest  before  the  bread  and  wine 
was  passed.  Made  out  like  he  warn't  sure  he'd  been 
rightly  babtized.  The  choir  was  mightily  tickled  at 
the  idea  o'  gittin'  shed  o'  the  old  pest,  and  Sam  Craw 
ford  went  to  him  and  told  him  he  was  on  the  right 
track  and  to  go  ahead,  for  the  Babtists  was  undoubtedly 
correct,  and  if  it  wasn't  for  displeasin'  his  father  and 
mother  he'd  jinc  'em  himself.  And  then  —  Sam  never 
could  let  well  enough  alone  —  then  he  went  to  Bush 

39 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

Elrod,  the  Babtist  tenor,  and  says  he,  'I  hear  you're 
goin'  to  have  a  new  member  in  your  choir.'  And 
Bush  says,  'Well,  if  the  old  idiot  ever  jines  this  church, 
we'll  hold  his  head  under  the  water  so  long  that  he 
won't  be  able  to  spile  good  music  agin.'  And  then 
he  give  Uncle  Jim  a  hint  o'  how  things  was;  and  when 
Uncle  Jim  heard  that  the  Presbyterians  was  anxious 
to  git  shed  of  him,  he  found  out  right  away 
that  all  them  Greek  and  Hebrew  wrords  meant  sprink- 
lin'  and  infant  babtism.  So  he  settled  down  to  stay 
where  he  was,  and  hollered  louder 'n  ever  the  next 
Sunday. 

"The  old  man  was  a  good  enough  Christian,  I 
reckon;  but  when  it  come  to  singin',  he  was  a  stum- 
blin'-block  and  rock  of  offense  to  the  whole  church, 
and  especially  to  the  choir.  The  first  thing  Sally  Ann 
said  when  she  looked  at  the  new  organ  was,  'Well, 
Jane,  how  do  you  reckon  it's  goin'  to  sound  with 
Uncle  Jim's  voice?'  and  I  laughed  till  I  had  to  set 
down  in  a  cheer. 

"Well,  when  the  men  folks  found  out  that  our  organ 
had  come,  they  begun  to  wake  up.  Abram  had  brought 
it  out  Tuesday,  and  Wednesday  night,  as  soon  as 
prayer-meetin'  broke,  Parson  Page  says,  says  he: 

40 


THE    NEW    ORGAN 

'Brethren,  there  is  a  little  business  to  be  transacted. 
Please  remain  a  few  minutes  longer.'  And  then,  when 
we  had  set  down  agin,  he  went  on  to  say  that  the 
sisters  had  raised  money  and  bought  an  organ,  and 
there  was  some  division  of  opinion  among  the  brethren 
about  usin'  it,  so  he  would  like  to  have  the  matter  dis 
cussed.  He  used  a  lot  o'  big  words  and  talked  mighty 
smooth,  and  I  knew  there  was  trouble  ahead  for  us 
women. 

"Uncle  Jim  was  the  first  one  to  speak.  He  was  so 
anxious  to  begin,  he  could  hardly  wait  for  Parson 
Page  to  stop;  and  anybody  would  'a'  thought  that 
he'd  been  up  to  heaven  and  talked  with  the  Father 
and  the  Son  and  the  Holy  Ghost  and  all  the  angels,  to 
hear  him  tell  about  the  sort  o'  music  there  was  in 
heaven,  and  the  sort  there  ought  to  be  on  earth.  'Why, 
brethren,'  says  he,  'when  John  saw  the  heavens  opened 
there  wasn't  no  organs  up  there.  God  don't  keer 
nothin','  says  he,  'about  such  new-fangled,  worldly 
instruments.  But  when  a  lot  o'  sweet  human  voices 
git  to  praisin'  him,  why,  the  very  angels  stop  singin' 
to  listen.' 

"Milly  Amos  was  right  behind  me,  and  she  leaned 
over  and  says,  'Well,  if  the  angels 'd  rather  hear  Uncle 

41 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

Jim's  singin'  than  our  organ,  they've  got  mighty  pore 
taste,  that's  all  I've  got  to  say.' 

"Silas  Petty  was  the  next  one  to  git  up,  and  says  he: 
'I  never  was  in  favor  o'  doin'  things  half-way,  brethren; 
and  if  we've  got  to  have  the  organ,  why,  we  might  as 
well  have  a  monkey,  too,  and  be  done  with  it.  For  my 
part,'  says  he,  'I  want  to  worship  in  the  good  old  way 
my  fathers  and  grandfathers  worshiped  in,  and,  unless 
my  feelin's  change  very  considerable,  I  shall  have  to 
withdraw  from  this  church  if  any  such  Satan's  music- 
box  is  set  up  in  this  holy  place.' 

"And  Sally  Ann  turned  around  and  whispered  to 
me,  'We  ought  to  V  got  that  organ  long  ago,  Jane.' 
I  like  to  'a'  laughed  right  out,  and  I  leaned  over,  and 
says  I,  'Why  don't  you  git  up  and  talk  for  us,  Sally 
Ann  ?'  and  she  says:  'The  spirit  ain't  moved  me,  Jane. 
I  reckon  it's  too  busy  movin'  Uncle  Jim  and  Silas 
Petty.' 

"Jest  then  I  looked  around,  and  there  was  Abram 
standin'  up.  Well,  you  could  'a'  knocked  me  over 
with  a  feather.  Abram  always  was  one  o'  those  close- 
mouthed  men.  Never  spoke  if  he  could  git  around  it 
any  way  whatever.  Parson  Page  used  to  git  after  him 
every  protracted  meetin'  about  not  leadin'  in  prayer 

42 


THE    NEW    ORGAN 

and  havin'  family  worship;  but  the  spirit  moved  him 
that  time  sure,  and  there  he  was  talkin'  as  glib  as  old 
Uncle  Jim.  And  says  he:  'Brethren,  I'm  not  carin' 
much  one  way  or  another  about  this  organ.  I  don't 
know  how  the  angels  feel  about  it,  not  havin'  so  much 
acquaintance  with  'em  as  Uncle  Jim  has;  but  I  do 
know  enough  about  women  to  know  that  there  ain't 
any  use  tryin'  to  stop  'em  when  they  git  their  heads  set 
on  a  thing,  and  I'm  goin'  to  haul  that  organ  over  to 
morrow  mornin'  and  set  it  up  for  the  choir  to  practise 
by  Friday  night.  If  I  don't  haul  it  over,  Sally  Ann 
and  Jane'll  tote  it  over  between  'em,  and  if  they  can't 
put  it  into  the  church  by  the  door,  they'll  hist  a  window 
and  put  it  in  that  way.  I  reckon,'  says  he,  'I've  got  all 
the  men  against  me  in  this  matter,  but  then,  I've  got  all 
the  women  on  my  side,  and  I  reckon  all  the  women 
and  one  man  makes  a  pretty  good  majority,  and  so 
I'm  goin'  to  haul  the  organ  over  to-morrow  mornin'.' 
"I  declare  I  felt  real  proud  of  Abram,  and  I  told 
him  so  that  night  when  we  was  goin'  home  together. 
Then  Parson  Page  he  says,  'It  seems  to  me  there  is 
sound  sense  in  what  Brother  Parish  says,  arid  I  suggest 
that  wre  allow  the  sisters  to  have  their  way  and  give 
the  organ  a  trial;  and  if  we  find  that  it  is  hurtful  to  the 

43 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

interests  of  the  church,  it  will  be  an  easy  matter  to 
remove  it.'  And  Milly  Amos  says  to  me,  'I  see  'em 
gittin'  that  organ  out  if  we  once  git  it  in.' 

"When  the  choir  met  Friday  night,  Milly  come  in  all 
in  a  flurry,  and  says  she:  'I  hear  Brother  Gardner  has 
gone  to  the  'Sociation  down  in  Russellville,  and  all  the 
Babtists  are  comin'  to  our  church  Sunday;  and  I  want 
to  show  'em  wrhat  good  music  is  this  once,  anyhow. 
Uncle  Jim  Matthews  is  laid  up  with  rheumatism,'  says 
she,  'and  if  that  ain't  a  special  providence  I  never  saw 
one.'  And  Sam  Crawford  slapped  his  knee,  and  says 
he,  'Well,  if  the  old  man's  rheumatism  jest  holds  out 
over  Sunday,  them  Babtists '11  hear  music  sure.' 

"Then  Milly  went  on  to  tell  that  she'd  been  up  to 
Squire  Elrod's,  and  Miss  Penelope,  the  squire's  niece 
from  Louisville,  had  promised  to  sing  a  voluntary  Sun 
day. 

'"Voluntary?     What's  that?'  says  Sam. 

"Why,'  says  Milly,  'it's  a  hymn  that  the  choir,  or 
somebody  in  it,  sings  of  their  own  accord,  without  the 
preacher  givin'  it  out;  just  like  your  tomatoes  come  up 
in  the  spring,  voluntary,  without  you  plantin'  the  seed. 
That's  the  way  they  do  in  the  city  churches,'  says  she, 
'  and  we  are  goin'  to  put  on  city  style  Sunday.' 

44 


THE    NEW    ORGAN 

"Then  they  went  to  work  and  practised  some  new 
tunes  for  the  hymns  Parson  Page  had  give  'em,  so  if 
Uncle  Jim's  rheumatism  didn't  hold  out,  he'd  still  have 
to  hold  his  peace. 

"Well,  Sunday  come;  but  special  providence  was  on 
Uncle  Jim's  side  that  time,  and  there  he  was  as  smilin' 
as  a  basket  o'  chips  if  he  did  have  to  walk  with  a  cane. 
We'd  had  the  church  cleaned  up  as  neat  as  a  new  pin. 
My  Jane  had  put  a  bunch  of  honeysuckles  and  pinks 
on  the  organ,  and  everybody  was  dressed  in  their  best. 
Miss  Penelope  was  settin'  at  the  organ  with  a  bunch 
of  roses  in  her  hand,  and  the  windows  was  all  open, 
and  you  could  see  the  trees  wavin'  in  the  wind  and  hear 
the  birds  singin'  outside.  I  always  did  think  that  was 
the  best  part  o'  Sunday  —  that  time  jest  before  church 
begins." 

Aunt  Jane's  voice  dropped.  Her  words  cameslowrly; 
and  into  the  story  fell  one  of  those  "flashes  of  silence" 
to  which  she  was  as  little  given  as  the  great  historian. 
The  pan  of  dumplings  waited  for  the  sprinkling  of 
spice  and  sugar,  while  she  stood  motionless,  looking 
afar  off,  though  her  gaze  apparently  stopped  on  the 
vacant  whitewashed  wall  before  her.  No  mind  reader's 
art  was  needed  to  tell  what  scene  her  faded  eyes  beheld. 

45 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

There  was  the  old  church,  with  its  battered  furniture 
and  high  pulpit.  For  one  brief  moment  the  grave  had 
yielded  up  its  dead,  and  "the  old  familiar  faces"  looked 
out  from  every  pew.  We  were  very  near  together, 
Aunt  Jane  and  I;  but  the  breeze  that  fanned  her  brow 
was  not  the  breeze  I  felt  as  I  sat  by  her  kitchen  win 
dow.  For  her  a  wind  was  blowing  across  the  plains  of 
memory;  and  the  honeysuckle  odor  it  carried  was  not 
from  the  bush  in  the  yard.  It  came,  weighted  with 
dreams,  from  the  blossoms  that  her  Jane  had  placed 
on  the  organ  twenty-five  years  ago.  A  bob-white  was 
calling  in  the  meadow  across  the  dusty  road,  and 
the  echoes  of  the  second  bell  had  just  died  away. 
She  and  Abram  were  side  by  side  in  their  ac 
customed  place,  and  life  lay  like  a  watered  garden  in 
the  peaceful  stillness  of  the  time  "jest  before  church 
begins." 

The  asparagus  on  the  stove  boiled  over  with  a  great 
spluttering,  and  Aunt  Jane  came  back  to  "the  eternal 
now." 

"Sakes  alive!"  she  exclaimed,  as  she  lifted  the  sauce 
pan;  "I  must  be  gittin'  old,  to  let  things  boil  over  this 
way  while  I'm  studyin'  about  old  times.  I  declare,  I 
believe  I've  clean  forgot  what  I  was  savin'." 

40 


THE    NEW    ORGAN 

"You  were  at  church,"  I  suggested,  "and  the  sing 
ing  was  about  to  begin." 

"Sure  enough!  Well,  all  at  once  Miss  Penelope  laid 
her  hands  on  the  keys  and  begun  to  play  and  sing 
'Nearer,  My  God,  to  Thee.'  We'd  heard  that  hymn 
all  our  lives  at  church  and  protracted  meetin's  and 
prayer-meetin's,  but  we  didn't  know  how  it  could  sound 
till  Miss  Penelope  sung  it  all  by  herself  that  day  with 
our  new  organ.  I  ricollect  jest  how  she  looked,  pretty 
little  thing  that  she  was;  and  sometimes  I  can  hear  her 
voice  jest  as  plain  as  I  hear  that  robin  out  yonder 
in  the  ellum  tree.  Every  word  was  jest  like  a  bright 
new  piece  o'  silver,  and  every  note  was  jest  like  gold; 
and  she  was  lookin'  up  through  the  winder  at  the  trees 
and  the  sky  like  she  was  singin'  to  somebody  we  couldn't 
see.  Vfe  clean  forgot  about  the  new  organ  and  the 
Babtists;  and  I  really  believe  we  was  feelin'  nearer  to 
God  than  we'd  ever  felt  before.  When  she  got  through 
with  the  first  verse,  she  played  somcthin'  soft  and  sweet 
and  begun  again;  and  right  in  the  middle  of  the  first 
line  —  I  declare,  it's  twenty-five  years  ago,  but  I  git 
mad  now  when  I  think  about  it  —  right  in  the 
middle  of  the  first  line  Uncle  Jim  jined  in  like 
an  old  squawkin'  jay-bird,  and  sung  like  he  was 

47 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

tryin'  to  drown  out  Miss  Penelope  and  the  new 
organ,  too. 

"Everybody  give  a  jump  when  he  first  started,  and 
he'd  got  nearly  through  the  verse  before  we  took  in 
what  was  happenin'.  Even  the  Babtists  jest  looked 
surprised  like  the  rest  of  us.  But  when  Miss  Penelope 
begun  the  third  time  and  Uncle  Jim  jined  in  with  his 
hollerin',  I  saw  Bush  Elrod  grin,  and  that  grin  spread 
all  over  the  Babtist  crowd  in  no  time.  The  Presby 
terian  young  folks  was  gigglin'  behind  their  fans,  and 
Bush  got  to  laughin'  till  he  had  to  git  up  and  leave  the 
church.  They  said  he  went  up  the  road  to  Sam  Amos' 
pasture  and  laid  down  on  the  ground  and  rolled  over 
and  over  and  laughed  till  he  couldn't  laugh  any  more. 

"I  was  so  mad  I  started  to  git  up,  though  goodness 
knows  what  I  could  'a'  done.  Abram  he  grabbed  my 
dress  and  says,  'Steady,  Jane!'  jest  like  he  was  talkiri' 
to  the  old  mare.  The  thing  that  made  me  maddest 
was  Silas  Petty  a-leanin'  back  in  his  pew  and  smilin' 
as  satisfied  as  if  he'd  seen  the  salvation  of  the  Lord. 
I  didn't  mind  the  Babtists  half  as  much  as  I  did  Silas. 

"The  only  person  in  the  church  that  wasn't  the  least 
bit  flustered  was  Miss  Penelope.  She  was  a  Marshall 
on  her  mother's  side,  and  I  always  said  that  nobody 

48 


THE    NEW    ORGAN 

but  a  born  lady  could  'a'  acted  as  she  did.  She  sung 
right  on  as  if  everything  was  goin'  exactly  right  and 
she'd  been  singin'  hymns  with  Uncle  Jim  all  her  life. 
Two  or  three  times  when  the  old  man  kind  o'  lagged 
behind,  it  looked  like  she  waited  for  him  to  ketch  up, 
and  when  she  got  through  and  Uncle  Jim  was  lum- 
berin'  on  the  last  note,  she  folded  her  hands  and  set 
there  lookin'  out  the  winder  where  the  sun  was  shinin' 
on  the  silver  poplar  trees,  jest  as  peaceful  as  a  angel, 
and  the  rest  of  us  as  mad  as  hornets.  Milly  Amos  set 
back  of  Uncle  Jim,  and  his  red  bandanna  handkerchief 
was  lyin'  over  his  shoulders  where  he'd  been  shooin' 
the  flies  away.  She  told  me  the  next  day  it  was  all  she 
could  do  to  keep  from  reachin'  over  and  chokin'  the 
old  man  off  while  Miss  Penelope  was  singin'. 

"I  said  Miss  Penelope  was  the  only  one  that  wasn't 
flustered.  I  ought  to  'a'  said  Miss  Penelope  and  Uncle 
Jim.  The  old  creetur  was  jest  that  simple-minded  he 
didn't  know  he'd  done  anything  out  o'  the  way,  and 
he  set  there  lookin'  as  pleased  as  a  child,  and  thinkin', 
I  reckon,  how  smart  he'd  been  to  help  Miss  Penelope 
out  with  the  singin'. 

"The  rest  o'  the  hymns  went  off  all  right,  and  it  did 
me  good  to  see  Uncle  Jim's  face  when  they  struck  up 

49 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

the  new  tunes.     He  tried  to  jine  in,  but  he  had  to  give 
it  up  and  wait  for  the  doxology. 

"Parson  Page  preached  a  powerful  good  sermon, 
but  I  don't  reckon  it  did  some  of  us  much  good,  we 
was  so  put  out  about  Uncle  Jim  spilin'  our  voluntary. 

"After  meetin'  broke  and  we  was  goin'  home,  me  and 
Abram  had  to  pass  by  Silas  Petty 's  wagon.  He  was 
helpin'  Maria  in,  and  I  don't  know  what  she'd  been 
sayin',  but  he  says,  'It's  a  righteous  judgment  on  you 
women,  Maria,  for  profanin'  the  Lord's  house  with 
that  there  organ.'  And,  mad  as  I  was,  I  had  to  laugh 
when  I  thought  of  old  Uncle  Jim  Matthews  executin'  a 
judgment  of  the  Lord.  Uncle  Jim  never  made  more'n 
a  half-way  livin'  at  the  carpenter's  trade,  and  I  reckon 
if  the  Lord  had  wanted  anybody  to  help  him  execute 
a  judgment,  Uncle  Jim  would  'a'  been  the  last  man 
he'd  'a'  thought  of. 

"Of  course  the  choir  was  madder'n  ever  at  Uncle 
Jim;  and  when  Milly  Amos  had  fever  that  summer,  she 
called  Sam  to  her  the  day  she  was  at  her  worst,  and 
pulled  his  head  down  and  whispered  as  feeble  as  a 
baby:  'Don't  let  Uncle  Jim  sing  at  my  funeral,  Sam. 
I'll  rise  up  out  of  my  coffin  if  he  does.'  And  Sam 
broke  out  a-laughin'  and  a-cryin'  at  the  same  time  — 

50 


THE    NEW    ORGAN 

he  thought  a  heap  o'  Milly  —  and  says  he,  'Well, 
Milly,  if  it'll  have  that  effect,  Uncle  Jim  shall  sing  at 
the  funeral,  sure.'  And  Milly  got  to  laughin',  weak 
as  she  was,  and  in  a  few  minutes  she  dropped  off  to 
sleep,  and  when  she  \voke  up  the  fever  was  gone,  and 
she  begun  to  git  well  from  that  day.  I  always  believed 
that  laugh  was  the  turnin'-p'int.  Instead  of  Uncle 
Jim  singin'  at  her  funeral,  she  sung  at  Uncle  Jim's, 
and  broke  down  and  cried  like  a  child  for  all  the  mean 
things  she'd  said  about  the  pore  old  creetur's  voice." 

The  asparagus  had  been  transferred  to  a  china  dish, 
and  the  browned  butter  was  ready  to  pour  over  it. 
The  potatoes  were  steaming  themselves  into  mealy 
delicacy,  and  Aunt  Jane  peered  into  the  stove  where 
the  dumplings  were  taking  on  a  golden  brown.  Her 
story-telling  evidently  did  not  interfere  with  her  culi 
nary  skill,  and  I  said  so. 

"La,  child,"  she  replied,  dashing  a  pinch  of  "sea- 
sonin'"  into  the  peas,  ';when  I  git  so  old  I  can't  do 
but  one  thing  at  a  time,  I'll  try  to  die  as  soon  as 
possible." 


51 


Ill 

AUNT   JANE'S   ALBUM 


III 

AUNT  JANE'S  ALBUM 

THEY  were  a  bizarre  mass  of  color  on  the  sweet 
spring  landscape,  those  patchwork  quilts,  sway 
ing  in  a  long  line  under  the  elms  and  maples.  The 
old  orchard  made  a  blossoming  background  for  them, 
and  farther  off  on  the  horizon  rose  the  beauty  of  fresh 
verdure  and  purple  mist  on  those  low  hills,  or  "knobs," 
that  are  to  the  heart  of  the  Kentuckian  as  the  Alps 
to  the  Swiss  or  the  sea  to  the  sailor. 

I  opened  the  gate  softly  and  paused  for  a  moment 
between  the  blossoming  lilacs  that  grew  on  each  side 
of  the  path.  The  fragrance  of  the  white  and  the  purple 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

blooms  was  like  a  resurrection-call  over  the  graves  of 
many  a  dead  spring;  and  as  I  stood,  shaken  with 
thoughts  as  the  flowers  are  with  the  winds,  Aunt  Jane 
came  around  from  the  back  of  the  house,  her  black  silk 
cape  fluttering  from  her  shoulders,  and  a  calico  sun- 
bonnet  hiding  her  features  in  its  cavernous  depth. 
She  walked  briskly  to  the  clothes-line  and  began  pat 
ting  and  smoothing  the  quilts  where  the  breeze  had 
disarranged  them. 

"Aunt  Jane,"  I  called  out,  "are  you  having  a  fail- 
all  by  yourself?" 

She  turned  quickly,  pushing  back  the  sunbonnet 
from  her  eyes. 

"Why,  child,"  she  said,  with  a  happy  laugh,  "you 
come  pretty  nigh  skeerin'  me.  No,  I  ain't  havin'  any 
fair;  I'm  jest  givin'  my  quilts  their  spring  airin'.  Twice 
a  year  I  put  'em  out  in  the  sun  and  wind;  and  this 
mornin'  the  air  smelt  so  sweet,  I  thought  it  was  a  good 
chance  to  freshen  'em  up  for  the  summer.  It's  about 
time  to  take  'em  in  now." 

She  began  to  fold  the  quilts  and  lay  them  over  her 
arm,  and  I  did  the  same.  Back  and  forth  we  went 
from  the  clothes-line  to  the  house,  and  from  the  house 
to  the  clothes-line,  until  the  quilts  were  safely  housed 

5G 


AUNT    JANE'S    ALBUM 

from  the  coming  dcwfall  and  piled  on  every  available 
chair  in  the  front  room.  I  looked  at  them  in  sheer 
amazement.  There  seemed  to  be  every  pattern  that 
the  ingenuity  of  woman  could  devise  and  the  indus 
try  of  woman  put  together,  —  "four-patches,"  "nine- 
patches,"  "log-cabins,"  "wild-goose  chases,"  "rising 
suns,"  hexagons,  diamonds,  and  only  Aunt  Jane  knows 
what  else.  As  for  color,  a  Sandwich  Islander  would 
have  danced  with  joy  at  the  sight  of  those  reds,  purples, 
yellows,  and  greens. 

"Did  you  really  make  all  these  quilts,  Aunt  Jane?" 
I  asked  wondcringly. 

Aunt  Jane's  eyes  sparkled  with  pride. 

"Every  stitch  of  'em,  child,"  she  said,  "except  the 
quiltin'.  The  neighbors  used  to  come  in  and  help 
some  with  that.  I've  heard  folks  say  that  piecin'  quilts 
was  nothin'  but  a  waste  o'  time,  but  that  ain't  always 
.so.  They  used  to  say  that  Sarah  Jane  Mitchell  would 
set  down  right  after  breakfast  and  piece  till  it  was  time 
to  git  dinner,  and  then  set  and  piece  till  she  had  to  git 
supper,  and  then  piece  by  candle-light  till  she  fell 
asleep  in  her  cheer. 

"I  ricollect  goin'  over  there  one  day,  and  Sarah  Jane 
was  gittin'  dinner  in  a  big  hurry,  for  Sam  had  to  go  to 

57 


AUNT   JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

town  with  some  cattle,  and  there  was  a  big  basket  o' 
quilt  pieces  in  the  middle  o'  the  kitchen  floor,  and  the 
house  lookin'  like  a  pigpen,  and  the  children  runnin' 
around  half  naked.  And  Sam  he  laughed,  and  says 
he,  'Aunt  Jane,  if  we  could  wear  quilts  and  eat  quilts 
we'd  be  the  richest  people  in  the  country.'  Sam  was 
the  best-natured  man  that  ever  was,  or  he  couldn't  'a' 
put  up  with  Sarah  Jane's  shiftless  ways.  Hannah 
Crawford  said  she  sent  Sarah  Jane  a  bundle  o'  caliker 
once  by  Sam,  and  Sam  always  declared  he  lost  it.  But 
Uncle  Jim  Matthews  said  he  was  ridin'  along  the  road 
jest  behind  Sam,  and  he  saw  Sam  throw  it  into  the 
creek  jest  as  he  got  on  the  bridge.  I  never  blamed  Sam 
a  bit  if  he  did. 

"But  there  never  was  any  time  wasted  on  my  quilts, 
child.  I  can  look  at  every  one  of  'em  with  a  clear  con 
science.  I  did  my  work  faithful;  and  then,  when  I 
might  'a'  set  and  held  my  hands,  I'd  make  a  block  or 
two  o'  patchwork,  and  before  long  I'd  have  enough  to 
put  together  in  a  quilt.  I  went  to  piecin'  as  soon  as  I 
was  old  enough  to  hold  a  needle  and  a  piece  o'  cloth, 
and  one  o'  the  first  things  I  can  remember  was  settin' 
on  the  back  door-step  sewin'my  quilt  pieces,  and  mother 
praisin'  my  stitches.  Nowadays  folks  don't  have  to 

58 


AUNT   JANE'S    ALBUM 

sew  unless  they  want  to,  but  when  I  was  a  child  there 
warn't  any  sewin '-machines,  and  it  was  about  as  need 
ful  for  folks  to  know  how  to  sew  as  it  was  for  'em  to 
know  how  to  eat;  and  every  child  that  was  well  raised 
could  hem  and  run  and  backstitch  and  gether  and  over 
hand  by  the  time  she  was  nine  years  old.  Why,  I'd 
pieced  four  quilts  by  the  time  I  was  nineteen  years  old, 
and  when  me  and  Abram  set  up  housekeepin'  I  had 
bedclothes  enough  for  three  beds. 

"I've  had  a  heap  o'  comfort  all  my  life  makin'  quilts, 
and  now  in  my  old  age  I  wouldn't  take  a  fortune  for 
'em.  Set  down  here,  child,  where  you  can  see  out  o' 
the  winder  and  smell  the  lilacs,  and  we'll  look  at  'em 
all.  You  see,  some  folks  has  albums  to  put  folks'  pic 
tures  in  to  remember  :em  by,  and  some  folks  has  a  book 
and  writes  down  the  things  that  happen  every  day  so 
they  won't  forgit  'em;  but,  honey,  these  quilts  is  my 
albums  and  my  di'ries,  and  whenever  the  weather's  bad 
and  I  can't  git  out  to  see  folks,  I  jest  spread  out  my 
quilts  and  look  at  'em  and  study  over  'em,  and  it's  jest 
like  goin'  back  fifty  or  sixty  years  and  livin'  my  life  over 
agin. 

"There  ain't  nothin'  like  a  piece  o'  caliker  for  bringin' 
back  old  times,  child,  unless  it's  a  flower  or  a  bunch  o' 

59 


AUNT   JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

thyme  or  a  piece  o'  pennyroy'l  —  anything  that  smells 
sweet.  Why,  I  can  go  out  yonder  in  the  yard  and 
gether  a  bunch  o'  that  purple  lilac  and  jest  shut  my 
eyes  and  see  faces  I  ain't  seen  for  fifty  years,  and  some- 
thin'  goes  through  me  like  a  flash  o'  lightnin',  and  it 
seems  like  I'm  young  agin  jest  for  that  minute." 

Aunt  Jane's  hands  were  stroking  lovingly  a  "nine- 
patch"  that  resembled  the  coat  of  many  colors. 

"Now  this  quilt,  honey,"  she  said,  "I  made  out  o' 
the  pieces  o'  my  children's  clothes,  their  little  dresses 
and  waists  and  aprons.  Some  of  'em's  dead,  and  some 
of  'em's  grown  and  married  and  a  long  way  off  from 
me,  further  off  than  the  ones  that's  dead,  I  sometimes 
think.  But  when  I  set  down  and  look  at  this  quilt  and 
think  over  the  pieces,  it  seems  like  they  all  come  back, 
and  I  can  see  'em  playin'  around  the  floors  and  goin' 
in  and  out,  and  hear  'em  cryin'  and  laughin'  and  callin' 
me  jest  like  they  used  to  do  before  they  grew  up  to  men 
and  women,  and  before  there  was  any  little  graves  o' 
mine  out  in  the  old  buryin '-ground  over  yonder." 

Wonderful  imagination  of  motherhood  that  can  bring 
childhood  back  from  the  dust  of  the  grave  and  banish 
the  wrinkles  and  gray  hairs  of  age  with  no  other  talis 
man  than  a  scrap  of  faded  calico! 

00 


AUNT    JANE'S    ALBUM 

The  old  woman's  hands  were  moving  tremulously 
over  the  surface  of  the  quilt  as  if  they  touched  the 
golden  curls  of  the  little  dream  children  who  had  van 
ished  from  her  hearth  so  many  years  ago.  But  there 
were  no  tears  either  in  her  eyes  or  in  her  voice.  I  had 
long  noticed  that  Aunt  Jane  always  smiled  when  she 
spoke  of  the  people  whom  the  world  calls  "dead,"  or 
the  things  it  calls  "lost"  or  "past."  These  words 
seemed  to  have  for  her  higher  and  tenderer  meanings 
than  are  placed  on  them  by  the  sorrowful  heart  of 
humanity. 

But  the  moments  \vere  passing,  and  one  could  not 
dwell  too  long  on  any  quilt,  however  well  beloved. 
Aunt  Jane  rose  briskly,  folded  up  the  one  that  lay 
across  her  knees,  and  whisked  out  another  from  the 
huge  pile  in  an  old  splint-bottomed  chair. 

"Here's  a  piece  o'  one  o'  Sally  Ann's  purple  caliker 
dresses.  Sally  Ann  always  thought  a  heap  o'  purple 
caliker.  Here's  one  o'  Milly  Amos'  ginghams  —  that 
pink-and-white  one.  And  that  piece  o'  white  with  the 
rosebuds  in  it,  that's  Miss  Penelope's.  She  give  it  to 
me  the  summer  before  she  died.  Bless  her  soul! 
That  dress  jest  matched  her  face  exactly.  Somehow 
her  and  her  clothes  always  looked  alike,  and  her  voice 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

matched  her  face,  too.  One  o'  the  things  I'm  lookin' 
forward  to,  child,  is  seein'  Miss  Penelope  agin  and 
hearin'  her  sing.  Voices  and  faces  is  alike;  there's 
some  that  you  can't  remember,  and  there's  some  you 
can't  forgit.  I've  seen  a  heap  o'  people  and  heard  a 
heap  o'  voices,  but  Miss  Penelope's  face  was  different 
from  all  the  rest,  and  so  was  her  voice.  Why,  if  she 
said  'Good  mornin"  to  you,  you'd  hear  that  'Good 
mornin'  all  day,  and  her  singin'  --  I  know  there  never 
was  anything  like  it  in  this  world.  My  grandchildren 
all  laugh  at  me  for  thinkin'  so  much  o'  Miss  Penelope's 
singin',  but  then  they  never  heard  her,  and  I  have: 
that's  the  difference.  My  grandchild  Henrietta  was 
down  here  three  or  four  years  ago,  and  says  she, 
'  Grandma,  don't  you  want  to  go  up  to  Louisville  with 
me  and  hear  Patti  sing?'  And  says  I,  'Patty  who, 
child?'  Says  I,  'If  it  was  to  hear  Miss  Penelope  sing, 
I'd  carry  these  old  bones  o'  mine  clear  from  here  to 
New  York.  But  there  ain't  anybody  else  I  want  to 
hear  sing  bad  enough  to  go  up  to  Louisville  or  any 
where  else.  And  some  o'  these  days,'  says  I,  Tin 
goin  to  hear  Miss  Penelope  sing.'" 

Aunt  Jane  laughed  blithely,  and  it  was  impossible 
not  to  laugh  with  her. 


AUNT    JANE'S    ALBUM 

"Honey,"  she  said,  in  the  next  breath,  lowering  her 
voice  and  laying  her  finger  on  the  rosebud  piece, 
"honey,  there's  one  thing  I  can't  git  over.  Here's  a 
piece  o'  Miss  Penelope's  dress,  but  ichere's  Miss  Penel 
ope?  Ain't  it  strange  that  a  piece  o'  caliker'll  outlast 
you  and  me  ?  Don't  it  look  like  folks  ought  'o  hold 
on  to  their  bodies  as  long  as  other  folks  holds  on  to  a 
piece  o'  the  dresses  they  used  to  wear?" 

Questions  as  old  as  the  human  heart  and  its  human 
grief!  Here  is  the  glove,  but  where  is  the  hand  it  held 
but  yesterday?  Here  the  jewel  that  she  wore,  but 
where  is  she  ? 

"  Where  is  the  Pompadour  now  ? 
This  was  the  Pompadour's  fan  ! " 

Strange  that  such  things  as  gloves,  jewels,  fans,  and 
dresses  can  outlast  a  woman's  form. 

"Behold!  I  show  you  a  mystery"  —the  mystery  of 
mortality.  And  an  eery  feeling  came  over  me  as  I  en 
tered  into  the  old  woman's  mood  and  thought  of  the 
strong,  vital  bodies  that  had  clothed  themselves  in  those 
fabrics  of  purple  and  pink  and  white,  and  that  now 
were  dust  and  ashes  lying  in  sad,  neglected  graves  on 
farm  and  lonely  roadside.  There  lay  the  quilt  on  our 
knees,  and  the  gay  scraps  of  calico  seemed  to  mock  us 

63 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

with  their  vivid  colors.  Aunt  Jane's  cheerful  voice 
called  me  back  from  the  tombs. 

"Here's  a  piece  o'  one  o'  my  dresses,"  she  said; 
"brown  ground  with  a  red  ring  in  it.  Abram  picked  it 
out.  And  here's  another  one,  that  light  yeller  ground 
with  the  vine  runnin'  through  it.  I  never  had  so  many 
caliker  dresses  that  I  didn't  want  one  more,  for  in  mv 
day  folks  used  to  think  a  caliker  dress  was  good  enough 
to  wear  anywhere.  Abram  knew  my  failin',  and  two 
or  three  times  a  year  he'd  bring  me  a  dress  when  he 
come  from  town.  And  the  dresses  he'd  pick  out  always 
suited  me  better'n  the  ones  I  picked. 

"I  ricollect  I  finished  this  quilt  the  summer  before 
Mary  Frances  was  born,  and  Sally  Ann  and  Milly 
Amos  and  Maria  Petty  come  over  and  give  me  a  lift 
on  the  quiltin'.  Here's  Milly 's  work,  here's  Sally  Ann's, 
and  here's  Maria's." 

I  looked,  but  my  inexperienced  eye  could  see  no 
difference  in  the  handiwork  of  the  three  women.  Aunt 
Jane  saw  my  look  of  incredulity. 

"Now,  child,"  she  said,  earnestly,  "you  think  I'm 
foolin'  you,  but,  la!  there's  jest  as  much  difference  in 
folks'  sewin'  as  there  is  in  their  handwritin'.  Milly 
made  a  fine  stitch,  but  she  couldn't  keep  on  the  line  to 

64 


AUNT    JANE'S    ALBUM 

save  her  life;  Maria  never  could  make  a  reg'lar  stitch, 
some'd  be  long  and  some  short,  and  Sally  Ann's  was 
reg'lar,  but  all  of  'em  coarse.  I  can  see  'em  now 
stoopin'  over  the  quiltin'  frames  —  Milly  talkin'  as 
hard  as  she  sewed,  Sally  Ann  thro  win'  in  a  word  now 
and  then,  and  Maria  never  openin'  her  mouth  except 
to  ask  for  the  thread  or  the  chalk.  I  ricollect  they 
come  over  after  dinner,  and  we  got  the  quilt  out  o'  the 
frames  long  before  sundown,  and  the  next  day  I  begun 
bindin'  it,  and  I  got  the  premium  on  it  that  year  at  the 
Fair. 

"I  hardly  ever  showed  a  quilt  at  the  Fair  that  I 
didn't  take  the  premium,  but  here's  one  quilt  that 
Sarah  Jane  Mitchell  beat  me  on." 

And  Aunt  Jane  dragged  out  a  ponderous,  red-lined 
affair,  the  very  antithesis  of  the  silken,  down-filled  com 
fortable  that  rests  so  lightly  on  the  couch  of  the  modern 
dame. 

"It  makes  me  laugh  jest  to  think  o'  that  time,  and 
how  happy  Sarah  Jane  was.  It  was  way  back  yonder 
in  the  fifties.  I  ricollect  we  had  a  mighty  fine  Fair 
that  year.  The  crops  was  all  fine  that  season,  and  such 
apples  and  pears  and  grapes  you  never  did  see.  The 
Floral  Hall  was  full  o'  things,  and  the  whole  county 

65 


AUNT   JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

turned  out  to  go  to  the  Fair.  Abram  and  me  got  there 
the  first  day  bright  and  early,  and  we  was  walkin' 
around  the  amp'itheater  and  lookin'  at  the  townfolks 
and  the  sights,  and  we  met  Sally  Ann.  She  stopped 
us,  and  says  she,  'Sarah  Jane  Mitchell's  got  a  quilt  in 
the  Floral  Hall  in  competition  with  yours  and  Milly 
Amos'.'  Says  I,  'Is  that  all  the  competition  there  is?' 
And  Sally  Ann  says,  'All  that  amounts  to  anything. 
There's  one  more,  but  it's  about  as  bad  a  piece  o'  sewin' 
as  Sarah  Jane's,  and  that  looks  like  it'd  hardly  hold 
together  till  the  Fair's  over.  And,'  says  she,  'I  don't 
believe  there'll  be  any  more.  It  looks  like  this  was  an 
off  year  on  that  particular  kind  o'  quilt.  I  didn't  get 
mine  done,'  says  she,  'and  neither  did  Maria  Petty, 
and  maybe  it's  a  good  thing  after  all.' 

"Well,  I  saw  in  a  minute  what  Sally  Ann  \vas  aimin' 
at.  And  I  says  to  Abram,  'Abram,  haven't  you  got 
somethin'  to  do  with  app'intin'  the  judges  for  the 
women's  things?'  And  he  says,  'Yes.'  And  I  says, 
'Well,  you  see  to  it  that  Sally  Ann  gits  app'inted  to 
help  judge  the  caliker  quilts.'  And  bless  your  soul, 
Abram  got  me  and  Sally  Ann  both  app'inted.  The 
other  judge  was  Mis'  Doctor  Brigham,  one  o'  the  town 
ladies.  Wre  told  her  all  about  what  we  wanted  to  do, 

66 


AUNT    JANE'S    ALBUM 

and  she  jest  laughed  and  says,  'Well,  if  that  ain't  the 
kindest,  nicest  thing!  Of  course  we'll  do  it.' 

"Seein'  that  I  had  a  quilt  there,  I  hadn't  a  bit  o' 
business  bein'  a  judge;  but  the  first  thing  I  did  was 
to  fold  my  quilt  up  and  hide  it  under  Maria  Petty 's  big 
worsted  quilt,  and  then  we  pinned  the  blue  ribbon  on 
Sarah  Jane's  and  the  red  on  Milly's.  I'd  fixed  it  all  up 
with  Milly,  and  she  was  jest  as  willin'  as  I  was  for 
Sarah  Jane  to  have  the  premium.  There  was  jest  one 
thing  I  was  afraid  of:  Milly  was  a  good-hearted  woman, 
but  she  never  had  much  control  over  her  tongue.  And 
I  says  to  her,  says  I :  '  Milly,  it's  mighty  good  of  you  to 
give  up  your  chance  for  the  premium,  but  if  Sarah  Jane 
ever  finds  it  out,  that'll  spoil  everything.  For,'  says  I, 
'there  ain't  any  kindness  in  doin'  a  person  a  favor  and 
then  tellin'  everybody  about  it.'  And  Milly  laughed, 
and  says  she:  'I  know  wyhat  you  mean,  Aunt  Jane. 
It's  mighty  hard  for  me  to  keep  from  tellin'  everything 
I  know  and  some  things  I  don't  know,  but,'  says  she, 
'I'm  never  goin'  to  tell  this,  even  to  Sam.'  And  she 
kept  her  word,  too.  Every  once  in  a  while  she'd  come 
up  to  me  and  whisper,  'I  ain't  told  it  yet,  Aunt  Jane,' 
jest  to  see  me  laugh. 

"As  soon  as  the  doors  was  open,  after  we'd  all  got 
67 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

through  judgin'  and  puttin'  on  the  ribbons,  Milly  went 
and  hunted  Sarali  Jane  up  and  told  her  that  her  quilt 
had  the  blue  ribbon.  They  said  the  pore  thing  like  to 
'a'  fainted  for  joy.  She  turned  right  white,  and  had 
to  lean  up  against  the  post  for  a  while  before  she  could 
git  to  the  Floral  Hall.  I  never  shall  forgit  her  face. 
It  was  worth  a  dozen  premiums  to  me,  and  Milly,  too. 
She  jest  stood  lookin'  at  that  quilt  and  the  blue  ribbon 
on  it,  and  her  eyes  was  full  o'  tears  and  her  lips  quiverin', 
and  then  she  started  off  and  brought  the  children  in  to 
look  at  'Mammy's  quilt.'  She  met  Sam  on  the  way 
out,  and  says  she:  'Sam,  what  do  you  reckon?  My 
quilt  took  the  premium.'  And  I  believe  in  my  soul 
Sam  was  as  much  pleased  as  Sarah  Jane.  He  came 
saunterin'  up,  tryin'  to  look  unconcerned,  but  any 
body  could  see  he  was  mighty  well  satisfied.  It  does 
a  husband  and  wife  a  heap  o'  good  to  be  proud  of 
each  other,  and  I  reckon  that  was  the  first  time  Sam 
ever  had  cause  to  be  proud  o'  pore  Sarah  Jane.  It's 
my  belief  that  he  thought  more  o'  Sarah  Jane  all  the 
rest  o'  her  life  jest  on  account  o'  that  premium.  Me 
and  Sally  Ann  helped  her  pick  it  out.  She  had  her 
choice  betwixt  a  butter-dish  and  a  cup,  and  she  took 
the  cup.  Folks  used  to  laugh  and  say  that  that  cup 

68 


AUNT   JANE'S   ALBUM 

was  the  only  thing  in  Sarah  Jane's  house  that  was  kept 
clean  and  bright,  and  if  it  hadn't  'a'  been  solid  silver, 
she'd  'a'  wore  it  all  out  rubbin'  it  up.  Sarah  Jane  died 
o'  pneumonia  about  three  or  four  years  after  that,  and 
the  folks  that  nursed  her  said  she  wouldn't  take  a 
drink  o'  water  or  a  dose  o'  medicine  out  o'  any  cup  but 
that.  There's  some  folks,  child,  that  don't  have  to  do 
anything  but  walk  along  and  hold  out  their  hands,  and 
the  premiums  jest  naturally  fall  into  'em;  and  there's 
others  that  work  and  strive  the  best  they  know  how, 
and  nothin'  ever  seems  to  come  to  'em;  and  I  reckon 
nobody  but  the  Lord  and  Sarah  Jane  knows  how  much 
happiness  she  got  out  o'  that  cup.  I'm  thankful  she 
had  that  much  pleasure  before  she  died." 

There  was  a  quilt  hanging  over  the  foot  of  the  bed 
that  had  about  it  a  certain  air  of  distinction.  It  was  a 
solid  mass  of  patchwork,  composed  of  squares,  paral 
lelograms,  and  hexagons.  The  squares  were  of  dark 
gray  and  red-brown,  the  hexagons  wrere  white,  the 
parallelograms  black  and  light  gray.  I  felt  sure  that  it 
had  a  history  that  set  it  apart  from  its  ordinary 
fellows. 

"Where  did  you  get  the  pattern,  Aunt  Jane?"  I 
asked.  "I  never  saw  anything  like  it." 

69 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

The  old  lady's  eyes  sparkled,  and  she  laughed  with 
pure  pleasure. 

"That's  what  everybody  says,"  she  exclaimed,  jump 
ing  up  and  spreading  the  favored  quilt  over  two  laden 
chairs,  where  its  merits  became  more  apparent  and 
striking.  "There  ain't  another  quilt  like  this  in  the 
State  o'  Kentucky,  or  the  world,  for  that  matter.  My 
granddaughter  Henrietta,  Mary  Frances' youngest  child, 
brought  me  this  pattern  frojn  Europe." 

She  spoke  the  words  as  one  might  say,  "from  Para 
dise,"  or  "from  Olympus,"  or  "from  the  Lost  Atlan 
tis."  "Europe"  was  evidently  a  name  to  conjure  with, 
a  country  of  mystery  and  romance  unspeakable.  I  had 
seen  many  things  from  many  lands  beyond  the  sea,  but 
a  quilt  pattern  from  Europe!  Here  at  last  was  some 
thing  new  under  the  sun.  In  what  shop  of  London  or 
Paris  were  quilt  patterns  kept  on  sale  for  the  American 
tourist  ? 

"You  see,"  said  Aunt  Jane,  "Henrietta  married  a 
mighty  rich  man,  and  jest  as  good  as  he's  rich,  too, 
and  they  went  to  Europe  on  their  bridal  trip.  AYhen 
she  come  home  she  brought  me  the  prettiest  shawl  you 
ever  saw.  She  made  me  stand  up  and  shut  my  eyes, 
and  she  put  it  on  my  shoulders  and  made  me  look  in 

70 


AUNT    JANE'S    ALBUM 

the  lookin'-glass,  and  then  she  says,  'I  brought  you  a 
new  quilt  pattern,  too,  grandma,  and  I  want  you  to 
piece  one  quilt  by  it  and  leave  it  to  me  when  you  die.' 
And  then  she  told  me  about  goin'  to  a  town  over  yonder 
they  call  Florence,  and  how  she  went  into  a  big  church 
that  was  built  hundreds  o'  years  before  I  was  born. 
And  she  said  the  floor  was  made  o'  little  pieces  o' 
colored  stone,  all  laid  together  in  a  pattern,  and  they 
called  it  mosaic.  And  says  I,  'Honey,  has  it  got  any 
thing  to  do  with  Moses  and  his  law?'  You  know  the 
Commandments  was  called  the  Mosaic  Law,  and  was 
all  on  tables  o'  stone.  And  Henrietta  jest  laughed, 
and  says  she:  'No,  grandma;  I  don't  believe  it  has. 
But,'  says  she,  'the  minute  I  stepped  on  that  pavement 
I  thought  about  you,  and  I  drew  this  pattern  off  on  a 
piece  o'  paper  and  brought  it  all  the  way  to  Kentucky 
for  you  to  make  a  quilt  by.'  Henrietta  bought  the 
worsted  for  me,  for  she  said  it  had  to  be  jest  the  colors 
o'  that  pavement  over  yonder,  and  I  made  it  that  very 
winter." 

Aunt  Jane  was  regarding  the  quilt  with  worshipful 
eyes,  and  it  really  was  an  effective  combination  of  color 
and  form. 

"Many  a  time  while  I  was  piecin'  that,"  she  said, 
71 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

"I  thought  about  the  man  that  laid  the  pavement  in 
that  old  church,  and  wondered  what  his  name  was,  and 
how  he  looked,  and  what  he'd  think  if  he  knew  there 
was  a  old  woman  down  here  in  Kentucky  usin'  his 
patterns  to  make  a  bedquilt." 

It  was  indeed  a  far  cry  from  the  Florentine  artisan 
of  centuries  ago  to  this  humble  worker  in  calico  and 
worsted,  but  between  the  two  stretched  a  cord  of 
sympathy  that  made  them  one  —  the  eternal  aspira 
tion  after  beauty. 

"Honey,"  said  Aunt  Jane,  suddenly,  "did  I  ever 
show  you  my  premiums?" 

And  then,  with  pleasant  excitement  in  her  manner, 
she  arose,  fumbled  in  her  deep  pocket  for  an  ancient 
bunch  of  keys,  and  unlocked  a  cupboard  on  one  side 
of  the  fireplace.  One  by  one  she  drew  them  out, 
unrolled  the  soft  yellow  tissue-paper  that  enfolded 
them,  and  ranged  them  in  a  stately  line  on  the  old 
cherry  center-table  —  nineteen  sterling  silver  cups 
and  goblets.  "Abram  took  some  of  'em  on  his 
fine  stock,  and  I  took  some  of  'em  on  my  quilts 
and  salt-risin'  bread  and  cakes,"  she  said,  impres 
sively. 

To  the  artist  his  medals,  to  the  soldier  his  cross  of 
72 


AUNT   JANE'S    ALBUM 

the  Legion  of  Honor,  and  to  Aunt  Jane  her  silver  cups! 
All  the  triumph  of  a  humble  life  was  symbolized  in 
these  shining  things.  They  were  simple  and  genuine 
as  the  days  in  which  they  were  made.  A  few  of 
them  boasted  a  beaded  edge  or  a  golden  lining,  but  no 
engraving  or  embossing  marred  their  silver  purity. 
On  the  bottom  of  each  was  the  stamp:  "John  B.  Akin, 
Danville,  Ky."  There  they  stood, 

"Filled  to  the  brim  with  precious  memories,"  — 

memories  of  the  time  when  she  and  Abram  had  worked 
together  in  field  or  garden  or  home,  and  the  County 
Fair  brought  to  all  a  yearly  opportunity  to  stand  on  the 
height  of  achievement  and  know  somewhat  the  taste  of 
Fame's  enchanted  cup. 

"There's  one  for  every  child  and  every  grandchild," 
she  said,  quietly,  as  she  began  wrapping  them  in  the 
silky  paper,  and  storing  them  carefully  away  in  the 
cupboard,  there  to  rest  until  the  day  when  children  and 
grandchildren  would  claim  their  own,  and  the  treasures 
of  the  dead  would  come  forth  from  the  darkness  to 
stand  as  heirlooms  on  fashionable  sideboards  and  dam 
ask-covered  tables. 

"Did  you  ever  think,  child,"  she  said,  presently, 
73 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

"how  much  piecin'  a  quilt's  like  livin'  a  life?  And  as 
for  sermons,  why,  they  ain't,  no  better  sermon  to  me 
than  a  patchwork  quilt,  and  the  doctrines  is  right  there 
a  heap  plainer 'n  they  are  in  the  catechism.  Many  a 
time  I've  set  and  listened  to  Parson  Page  prcachin' 
about  predestination  and  free-will,  and  I've  said  to 
myself,  'Well,  I  ain't  never  been  through  Centre 
College  up  at  Danville,  but  if  I  could  jest  git  up  in  the 
pulpit  with  one  of  my  quilts,  I  could  make  it  a  heap 
plainer  to  folks  than  parson's  makin'  it  with  all  his  big 
words.'  You  see,  you  start  out  with  jest  so  much  cali- 
ker;  you  don't  go  to  the  store  and  pick  it  out  and  buy 
it,  but  the  neighbors  will  give  you  a  piece  here -and  a 
piece  there,  and  you'll  have  a  piece  left  every  time  you 
cut  out  a  dress,  and  you  take  jest  what  happens  to 
come.  And  that's  like  predestination.  But  when  it 
comes  to  the  cuttin'  out,  why,  you're  free  to  choose 
your  own  pattern.  You  can  give  the  same  kind  o' 
pieces  to  two  persons,  and  one'll  make  a  'nine-patch' 
and  one'll  make  a  'wild-goose  chase,'  and  there'll  be 
two  quilts  made  out  o'  the  same  kind  o'  pieces,  and  jest 
as  different  as  they  can  be.  And  that  is  jest  the  way 
with  livin'.  The  Lord  sends  us  the  pieces,  but  we  can 
cut  'em  out  and  put  'em  together  pretty  much  to  suit 

74 


AUNT   JANE'S   ALBUM 

ourselves,  and  there's  a  heap  more  in  the  cuttin'  out 
and  the  sewin'  than  there  is  in  the  caliker.  The  same 
sort  o'  things  comes  into  all  lives,  jest  as  the  Apostle 
says,  'There  hath  no  trouble  taken  you  but  is  common 
to  all  men.' 

"The  same  trouble'll  come  into  two  people's  lives, 
and  one'll  take  it  and  make  one  thing  out  of  it,  and  the 
other'll  make  somethin'  entirely  different.  There  was 
Mary  Harris  and  Mandy  Crawford.  They  both  lost 
their  husbands  the  same  year;  and  Mandy  set  down 
and  cried  and  worried  and  wondered  what  on  earth  she 
was  goin'  to  do,  and  the  farm  went  to  wrack  and  the 
children  turned  out  bad,  and  she  had  to  live  with  her 
son-in-law  in  her  old  age.  But  Mary,  she  got  up  and 
went  to  work,  and  made  everybody  about  her  work, 
too;  and  she  managed  the  farm  better'n  it  ever  had  been 
managed  before,  and  the  boys  all  come  up  steady,  hard- 
workin'  men,  and  there  wasn't  a  Avoman  in  the  county 
better  fixed  up  than  Mary  Harris.  Things  is  predes 
tined  to  come  to  us,  honey,  but  we're  jest  as  free  as  air 
to  make  what  we  please  out  of  'em.  And  when  it 
comes  to  puttin'  the  pieces  together,  there's  another 
time  when  we're  free.  You  don't  trust  to  luck  for  the 
caliker  to  put  your  quilt  together  with;  you  go  to  the 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

store  and  pick  it  out  yourself,  any  color  you  like. 
There's  folks  that  always  looks  on  the  bright  side  and 
makes  the  best  of  everything,  and  that's  like  puttin' 
your  quilt  together  with  blue  or  pink  or  white  or  some 
other  pretty  color;  and  there's  folks  that  never  see  any 
thing  but  the  dark  side,  and  always  lookin'  for  trouble, 
and  treasurin'  it  up  after  they  git  it,  and  they're  puttin' 
their  lives  together  writh  black,  jest  like  you  would  put 
a  quilt  together  with  some  dark,  ugly  color.  You  can 
spoil  the  prettiest  quilt  pieces  that  ever  was  made  jest 
by  puttin'  'em  together  with  the  wrong  color,  and  the 
best  sort  o'  life  is  miserable  if  you  don't  look  at  things 
right  and  think  about  'em  right. 

"Then  there's  another  thing.  I've  seen  folks  piece 
and  piece,  but  when  it  come  to  puttin'  the  blocks  together 
and  quiltin'  and  linin'  it,  they'd  give  out;  and  that's  like 
folks  that  do  a  little  here  and  a  little  there,  but  their 
lives  ain't  of  much  use  after  all,  any  more'n  a  lot  o' 
loose  pieces  o'  patchwork.  And  then  while  you're 
livin'  your  life,  it  looks  pretty  much  like  a  jumble  o' 
quilt  pieces  before  they're  put  together;  but  when  you 
git  through  with  it,  or  pretty  nigh  through,  as  I  am  now, 
you'll  see  the  use  and  the  purpose  of  everything  in  it. 
Everything'll  be  in  its  right  place  jest  like  the  squares 

76 


AUNT   JANE'S   ALBUM 

in  this  'four-patch,'  and  one  piece  may  be  pretty  and 
another  one  ugly,  but  it  all  looks  right  when  you  see  it 
finished  and  joined  together." 

Did  I  say  that  every  pattern  was  represented  ?  No, 
there  was  one  notable  omission.  Not  a  single  "crazy 
quilt"  was  there  in  the  collection.  I  called  Aunt  Jane's 
attention  to  this  lack. 

"Child,"  she  said,  "I  used  to  say  there  wasn't  any 
thing  I  couldn't  do  if  I  made  up  my  mind  to  it.  But  I 
hadn't  seen  a  'crazy  quilt'  then.  The  first  one  I  ever 
seen  was  up  at  Danville  at  Mary  Frances',  and  Hen 
rietta  says,  'Now,  grandma,  you've  got  to  make  a  crazy 
quilt;  you've  made  every  other  sort  that  ever  was  heard 
of.'  And  she  brought  me  the  pieces  and  showed  me 
how  to  baste  'em  on  the  square,  and  said  she'd  work 
the  fancy  stitches  around  'em  for  me.  Well,  I  set  there 
all  the  mornin'  tryin'  to  fix  up  that  square,  and  the  more 
I  tried,  the  uglier  and  crookeder  the  thing  looked. 
And  finally  I  says:  'Here,  child,  take  your  pieces.  If 
I  was  to  make  this  the  way  you  want  me  to,  they'd  be  a 
crazy  quilt  and  a  crazy  woman,  too.'" 

Aunt  Jane  was  laying  the  folded  quilts  in  neat  piles 
here  and  there  about  the  room.  There  was  a  look  of 
unspeakable  satisfaction  on  her  face  —  the  look  of  the 

77 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

creator  who  sees  his  completed  work  and  pronounces  it 
good. 

"I've  been  a  hard  worker  all  my  life,"  she  said,  seat 
ing  herself  and  folding  her  hands  restfully,  "but  'most 
all  my  work  has  been  the  kind  that  'perishes  with  the 
usin','  as  the  Bible  says.  That's  the  discouragin'  thing 
about  a  woman's  work.  Milly  Amos  used  to  say  that 
if  a  woman  was  to  see  all  the  dishes  that  she  had  to 
wash  before  she  died,  piled  up  before  her  in  one  pile, 
she'd  lie  down  and  die  right  then  and  there.  I've 
always  had  the  name  o'  bein'  a  good  housekeeper,  but 
when  I'm  dead  and  gone  there  ain't  anybody  goin'  to 
think  o'  the  floors  I've  swept,  and  the  tables  I've 
scrubbed,  and  the  old  clothes  I've  patched,  and  the 
stockin's  I've  darned.  Abram  might  'a'  remembered 
it,  but  he  ain't  here.  But  when  one  o'  my  grandchil 
dren  or  great-grandchildren  sees  one  o'  these  quilts, 
they'll  think  about  Aunt  Jane,  and,  wherever  I  am 
then,  I'll  know  I  ain't  forgotten. 

"I  reckon  everybody  wants  to  leave  somethin'  be 
hind  that'll  last  after  they're  dead  and  gone.  It  don't 
look  like  it's  worth  while  to  live  unless  you  can  do  that. 
The  Bible  says  folks  'rest  from  their  labors,  and  their 
works  do  follow  them,'  but  that  ain't  so.  They  go,  and 

78 


AUNT   JANE'S    ALBUM 

maybe  they  do  rest,  but  their  works  stay  right  here, 
unless  they're  the  sort  that  don't  outlast  the  usin'. 
Now,  some  folks  has  money  to  build  monuments  with 
—  great,  tall,  marble  pillars,  with  angels  on  top  of  'em, 
like  you  see  in  Cave  Hill  and  them  big  city  buryin'- 
grounds.  And  some  folks  can  build  churches  and 
schools  and  hospitals  to  keep  folks  in  mind  of  'em,  but 
all  the  work  I've  got  to  leave  behind  me  is  jest  these 
quilts,  and  sometimes,  when  I'm  settin'  here,  workin' 
with  my  caliker  and  gingham  pieces,  I'll  finish  off  a 
block,  and  I  laugh  and  say  to  myself,  'Well,  here's 
another  stone  for  the  monument.' 

"I  reckon  you  think,  child,  that  a  caliker  or  a  worsted 
quilt  is  a  curious  sort  of  a  monument  —  'bout  as  perish 
able  as  the  sweepin'  and  scrubbin'  and  mendin'.  But 
if  folks  values  things  rightly,  and  knows  how  to  take 
care  of  'em,  there  ain't  many  things  that'll  last  longer'n 
a  quilt.  Why,  I've  got  a  blue  and  white  counterpane 
that  my  mother's  mother  spun  and  wove,  and  there 
ain't  a  sign  o'  givin'  out  in  it  yet.  I'm  goin'  to  will 
that  to  my  granddaughter  that  lives  in  Danville,  Mary 
Frances'  oldest  child.  She  was  down  here  last 
summer,  and  I  was  lookin'  over  my  things  and  packin' 
'em  away,  and  she  happened  to  see  that  counterpane, 

79 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

and  says  she,  'Grandma,  I  want  you  to  will  me  that.' 
And  says  I:  'What  do  you  want  with  that  old  thing, 
honey?  You  know  you  wouldn't  sleep  under  such  a 
counterpane  as  that.'  And  says  she,  'No,  but  I'd  hang 
it  up  over  my  parlor  door  for  a  — 

"Portiere?"  I  suggested,  as  Aunt  Jane  hesitated  for 
the  unaccustomed  \vord. 

"That's  it,  child.  Somehow  I  can't  ricollect  these 
new-fangled  wrords,  any  more'n  I  can  understand  these 
new-fangled  ways.  Who'd  ever  'a'  thought  that  folks'd 
go  to  stringin'  up  bed-coverin's  in  their  doors  ?  And 
says  I  to  Janie,  'You  can  hang  your  great-grand 
mother's  counterpane  up  in  your  parlor  door  if  you 
want  to,  but,'  says  I,  'don't  you  ever  make  a  door-cur 
tain  out  o'  one  o'  my  quilts.'  But  la!  the  way  things 
turn  around,  if  I  was  to  come  back  fifty  years  from 
now,  like  as  not  I'd  find  'em  usin'  my  quilts  for  window- 
curtains  or  door-mats." 

We  both  laughed,  and  there  rose  in  my  mind  a  pic 
ture  of  a  twentieth-century  house  decorated  with  Aunt 
Jane's  "nine-patches"  and  "rising  suns."  How  could 
the  dear  old  woman  know  that  the  same  esthetic  sense 
that  had  drawn  from  their  obscurity  the  white  and  blue 
counterpanes  of  colonial  days  would  forever  protect  her 

80 


AUNT    JANE'S    ALBUM 

loved  quilts  from  such  a  desecration  as  she  feared  ?  As 
she  lifted  a  pair  of  quilts  from  a  chair  near  by,  I  caught 
sight  of  a  pure  white  spread  in  striking  contrast  with 
the  many-hued  patchwork. 

"Where  did  you  get  that  Marseilles  spread,  Aunt 
Jane  ?"  I  asked,  pointing  to  it.  Aunt  Jane  lifted  it  and 
laid  it  on  my  lap  without  a  word.  Evidently  she 
thought  that  here  was  something  that  could  speak  for 
itself.  It  was  two  layers  of  snowy  cotton  cloth  thinly 
lined  with  cotton,  and  elaborately  quilted  into  a  per 
fect  imitation  of  a  Marseilles  counterpane.  The  pat 
tern  was  a  tracery  of  roses,  buds,  and  leaves,  very  much 
conventionalized,  but  still  recognizable  for  the  things 
they  were.  The  stitches  were  fairylike,  and  altogether 
it  might  have  covered  the  bed  of  a  queen. 

"I  made  every  stitch  o'  that  spread  the  year  before 
me  and  Abram  was  married,"  she  said.  "I  put  it  on 
my  bed  when  we  went  to  housekeeping  it  was  on  the 
bed  when  Abram  died,  and  when  I  die  I  want  'em  to 
cover  me  with  it."  There  was  a  life-history  in  the 
simple  words.  I  thought  of  Desdemona  and  her  bridal 
sheets,  and  I  did  not  offer  to  help  Aunt  Jane  as  she 
folded  this  quilt. 

"I  reckon  you  think,"  she  resumed  presently,  "that 
81 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

I'm  a  mean,  stingy  old  creetur  not  to  give  Janie  the 
counterpane  now,  instead  o'  hoardin'  it  up,  and  all 
these  quilts  too,  and  keepin'  folks  waitin'  for  'em  till  I 
die.  But,  honey,  it  ain't  all  selfishness.  I'd  give  away 
my  best  dress  or  my  best  bonnet  or  an  acre  o'  ground  to 
anybody  that  needed  'em  more'n  I  did;  but  these 
quilts  —  Why,  it  looks  like  my  whole  life  was  sewed 
up  in  'em,  and  I  ain't  goin'  to  part  with  'em  while  life 
lasts." 

There  was  a  ring  of  passionate  eagerness  in  the  old 
voice,  and  she  fell  to  putting  away  her  treasures  as  if 
the  suggestion  of  losing  them  had  made  her  fearful  of 
their  safety. 

I  looked  again  at  the  heap  of  quilts.  An  hour  ago 
they  had  been  patchwork,  and  nothing  more.  But 
now!  The  old  woman's  words  had  wrought  a  trans 
formation  in  the  homely  mass  of  calico  and  silk  and 
worsted.  Patchwork?  Ah,  no!  It  was  memory, 
imagination,  history,  biography,  joy,  sorrow,  philoso 
phy,  religion,  romance,  realism,  life,  love,  and  death; 
and  over  all,  like  a  halo,  the  love  of  the  artist  for  his 
work  and  the  soul's  longing  for  earthly  immortality. 

No  wonder  the  wrinkled  fingers  smoothed  them  as 
reverently  as  we  handle  the  garments  of  the  dead. 

82 


IV 
"SWEET   DAY   OF   REST" 


IV 

"SWEET  DAY  OF  REST" 

I  WALKED  slowly  down  the  "big  road"  that  Sun 
day  afternoon  —  slowly,  as  befitted  the  scene  and 
the  season;  for  who  would  hurry  over  the  path  that 
summer  has  prepared  for  the  feet  of  earth's  tired  pil 
grims  ?  It  was  the  middle  of  June,  and  Nature  lay  a 
vision  of  beauty  in  her  vesture  of  flowers,  leaves,  and 
blossoming  grasses.  The  sandy  road  was  a  pleasant 
walking-place;  an. I  if  one  tired  of  that,  (he  short,  thick 

85 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

grass  on  either  side  held  a  fairy  path  fragrant  with 
pennyroyal,  that  most  virtuous  of  herbs.  A  tall  hedge 
of  Osage  orange  bordered  each  side  of  the  road,  shading 
the  traveler  from  the  heat  of  the  sun,  and  furnishing  a 
nesting-place  for  numberless  small  birds  that  twittered 
and  chirped  their  joy  in  life  and  love  and  June.  Occa 
sionally  a  gap  in  the  foliage  revealed  the  placid  beauty 
of  corn,  oats,  and  clover,  stretching  in  broad  expanse 
to  the  distant  purple  woods,  with  here  and  there  a  field 
of  the  cloth  of  gold  —  the  fast-ripening  wheat  that 
waited  the  hand  of  the  mower.  Not  only  is  it  the 
traveler's  manifest  duty  to  walk  slowly  in  the  midst  of 
such  surroundings,  but  he  will  do  well  if  now  and  then 
he  sits  down  and  dreams. 

As  I  made  the  turn  in  the  road  and  drew  near  Aunt 
Jane's  house,  I  heard  her  voice,  a  high,  sweet,  quaver 
ing  treble,  like  the  notes  of  an  ancient  harpsichord. 
She  was  singing  a  hymn  that  suited  the  day  and  the  hour: 

"Welcome,  sweet  day  of  rest, 
That  saw  the  Lord  arise, 
Welcome  to  this  reviving  breast, 
And  these  rejoicing  eyes." 

Mingling  with  the  song  I  could  hear  the  creak  of  her 
old  splint-bottomed  chair  as  she  rocked  gently  to  and 

86 


''SWEET    DAY    OF    REST" 

fro.  Song  and  creak  ceased  at  once  when  she  caught 
sight  of  me,  and  before  I  had  opened  the  gate  she  was 
hospitably  placing  another  chair  on  the  porch  and 
smiling  a  welcome. 

"Come  in,  child,  and  set  down,"  she  exclaimed, 
moving  the  rocker  so  that  I  might  have  a  good 
view  of  the  bit  of  landscape  that  she  knew  I  loved  to 
look  at. 

"Pennyroy'l!  Now,  child,  how  did  you  know  I  love 
to  smell  that?"  She  crushed  the  bunch  in  her  with 
ered  hands,  buried  her  face  in  it  and  sat  for  a  moment 
with  closed  eyes.  "Lord!  Lord!"  she  exclaimed,  with 
deep-dra\vn  breath,  "if  I  could  jest  tell  how  that  makes 
me  feel!  I  been  smellin'  pennyroy'l  all  my  life,  and  now, 
when  I  get  hold  of  a  piece  of  it,  sometimes  it  makes 
me  feel  like  a  little  child,  and  then  again  it  brings  up 
the  time  when  I  was  a  gyirl,  and  if  I  was  to  keep  on 
scttin'  here  and  rubbin'  this  pennyroy'l  in  my  hands, 
I  believe  my  whole  life'd  come  back  to  me.  Honey 
suckles  and  pinks  and  roses  ain't  any  sweeter  to  me. 
Me  and  old  Uncle  Harvey  Dean  was  jest  alike  about 
pennyroy'l.  Many  a  time  I've  seen  Uncle  Harvey 
searchin'  around  in  the  fence  corners  in  the  early  part 
o'  May  to  see  if  the  pennyroy'l  was  up  yet,  and  in 

87 


AUNT  .JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

pennyroy'l  time  you  never  saw  the  old  man  that  he 
didn't  have  a  bunch  of  it  somewheres  about  him. 
Aunt  Maria  Dean  used  to  say  there  was  dried  penny 
roy'l  in  every  pocket  of  his  coat,  and  he  used  to  put  a 
big  bunch  of  it  on  his  piller  at  night.  Sundays  it  looked 
like  Uncle  Harvey  couldn't  enjoy  the  preachin'  and  the 
singin'  unless  he  had  a  sprig  of  it  in  his  hand,  and  I 
ricollect  once  seein'  him  git  up  durin'  the  first  prayer 
and  tiptoe  out  o'  church  and  come  back  with  a  hand 
ful  o'  pennyroy'l  that  he'd  gethered  across  the  road,  and 
he'd  set  and  smell  it  and  look  as 'pleased  as  a  child  with 
a  piece  o'  candy." 

"Piercing  sweet"  the  breath  of  the  crushed  wayside 
herb  rose  on  the  air.  I  had  a  distinct  vision  of  Uncle 
Harvey  Dean,  and  wondered  if  the  fields  of  asphodel 
might  not  yield  him  some  small  harvest  of  his  much- 

O  «/ 

loved  earthly  plant,  or  if  he  might  not  be  drawn  earth 
ward  in  "pennyroy'l  time." 

"I  was  jest  settin'  here  restin',"  resumed  Aunt  Jane, 
"and  thinkin'  about  Milly  Amos.  I  reckon  you  heard 
me  singin'  fit  to  scare  the  crows  as  you  come  along. 
We  used  to  call  that  Milly  Amos'  hymn,  and  I  never 
can  hear  it  without  thinkin'  o'  Milly." 

"Why  was  it  Milly  Amos'  hymn?"  I  asked. 
88 


"SWEET    DAY    OF    REST" 

Aunt  Jane  laughed  blithely. 

"La,  child!"  she  said,  "don't  you  ever  git  tired  o' 
my  yarns  ?  Here  it  is  Sunday,  and  you  tryin'  to  git 
me  started  talkin';  and  when  I  git  started  you  know 
there  ain't  any  tellin'  when  I'll  stop.  Come  on  and  le's 
look  at  the  gyarden;  that's  more  fittin'  for  Sunday 
evcnin'  than  tellin'  yarns." 

So  together  we  went  into  the  garden  arid  marveled 
happily  over  the  growth  of  the  tasseling  corn,  the 
extraordinarily  long  runners  on  the  young  strawberry 
plants,  the  size  of  the  green  tomatoes,  and  all  the  rest 
of  the  miracles  that  sunshine  and  rain  had  wrought 
since  my  last  visit. 

The  first  man  and  the  first  woman  were  gardeners, 
and  there  is  something  wrong  in  any  descendant  of 
theirs  who  does  not  love  a  garden.  He  is  lacking  in  a 
primal  instinct.  But  Aunt  Jane  was  in  this  respect 
a  true  daughter  of  Eve,  a  faithful  co-worker  with  the 
sunshine,  the  winds,  the  rain,  and  all  other  forces  of 
nature. 

"What  do  you  reckon  folks'd  do,"  she  inquired,  "if 
it  wasn't  for  plantin'-time  and  growin'-time  and  har 
vest-time  ?  I've  heard  folks  say  they  was  tired  o'  livin', 
but  as  long  as  there's  a  gyarden  to  be  planted  and 

89 


AUNT   JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

looked  after  there's  somethin'  to  live  for.  And  unless 
there's  gyardens  in  heaven  I'm  pretty  certain  I  ain't 
goin'  to  be  satisfied  there." 

But  the  charms  of  the  garden  could  not  divert  me 
from  the  main  theme,  and  when  we  were  seated  again 
on  the  front  porch  I  returned  to  Milly  Amos  and  her 
hymn. 

"You  know,"  I  said,  "that  there  isn't  any  more  harm 
in  talking  about  a  thing  on  Sunday  than  there  is  in 
thinking  about  it."  And  Aunt  Jane  yielded  to  the 
force  of  my  logic. 

"I  reckon  you've  heard  me  tell  many  a  time  about 
our  choir,"  she  began,  smoothing  out  her  black  silk 
apron  with  fingers  that  evidently  felt  the  need  of  knit 
ting  or  some  other  form  of  familiar  work.  "John 
Petty  was  the  bass,  Sam  Crawford  the  tenor,  my  Jane 
was  the  alto,  and  Milly  Amos  sung  soprano.  I  reckon 
Milly  might  'a'  been  called  the  leader  of  the  choir;  she 
was  the  sort  o'  woman  that  generally  leads  wherever 
she  happens  to  be,  and  she  had  the  strongest,  finest 
voice  in  the  whole  congregation.  All  the  parts  appeared 
to  depend  on  her,  and  it  seemed  like  her  voice  jest  car 
ried  the  rest  o'  the  voices  along  like  one  big  river  that 
takes  up  all  the  little  rivers  and  carries  'em  down  to  the 

90 


"SWEET    DAY    OF    REST" 

ocean.  I  used  to  think  about  the  difference  between 
her  voice  and  Miss  Penelope's.  Milly's  was  jest  as 
clear  and  true  as  Miss  Penelope's,  and  four  or  five 
times  as  strong,  but  I'd  ruther  hear  one  note  o'  Miss 
Penelope's  than  a  whole  song  o'  Milly's.  Milly's  was 
jest  a  voice,  and  Miss  Penelope's  was  a  voice  and  some- 
thin'  else  besides,  but  what  that  somethin'  was  I  never 
could  say.  However,  Milly  was  the  very  one  for  a 
choir;  she  kind  o'  kept  'em  all  together  and  led  'em 
along,  and  we  was  mighty  proud  of  our  choir  in  them 
days.  We  always  had  a  voluntary  after  we  got  our 
new  organ,  and  I  used  to  look  forward  to  Sunday  on 
account  o'  that  voluntary.  It  used  to  sound  so  pretty 
to  hear  'em  begin  singin'  when  everything  was  still  and 
solemn,  and  I  can  never  forgit  the  hymns  they  sung 
then  —  Sam  and  Milly  and  John  and  my  Jane. 

"But  there  was  one  Sunday  when  Milly  didn't  sing. 
Her  and  Sam  come  in  late,  and  I  knew  the  minute  I 
set  eyes  on  Milly  that  somethin'  was  the  matter.  Gen 
erally  she  was  smilin'  and  bowin'  to  people  all  around, 
but  this  time  she  walked  in  and  set  the  children  down, 
and  then  set  down  herself  without  even  lookin'  at  any 
body,  to  say  nothin'  o'  smilin'  or  speakin'.  Well, 
when  half-past  ten  come,  my  Jane  began  to  play  'Wel- 

01 


AUNT   JANE    OF   KENTUCKY 

come,  sweet  day  of  rest,'  and  all  of  'em  begun  singin' 
except  Milly.  She  set  there  with  her  mouth  tight  shut, 
and  let  the  bass  and  tenor  and  alto  have  it  all  their  own 
way.  I  thought  maybe  she  was  out  o'  breath  from 
comin'  in  late  and  in  a  hurry,  and  I  looked  for  her  to 
jine  in,  but  she  jest  set  there,  lookin'  straight  ahead  of 
her;  and  when  Sam  passed  her  a  hymn-book,  she  took 
hold  of  it  and  shut  it  up  and  let  it  drop  in  her  lap.  And 
there  was  the  tenor  and  the  bass  and  the  alto  doin'  their 
best,  and  everybody  laughin',  or  try  in'  to  keep  from 
laughin'.  I  reckon  if  Uncle  Jim  Matthews  had  'a' 
been  there,  he'd  'a'  took  Milly 's  place  and  helped  'em 
out,  but  Uncle  Jim'd  been  in  his  grave  more'n  two 
years.  Sam  looked  like  he'd  go  through  the  floor,  he 
was  so  mortified,  and  he  kept  lookin'  around  at  Milly 
as  much  as  to  say,  'Why  don't  you  sing?  Please  sing, 
Milly,'  but  Milly  never  opened  her  mouth. 

"I'd  about  concluded  Milly  must  have  the  sore 
throat  or  somethin'  like  that,  but  when  the  first  hymn 
was  give  out,  Milly  started  in  and  sung  as  loud  as  any 
body;  and  \\hen  the  doxology  come  around,  Milly  Avas 
on  hand  again,  and  everybody  was  settiri'  there  won- 
derin'  why  on  earth  Milly  hadn't  sung  in  the  voluntary. 
When  church  was  out,  I  heard  Sam  invitin'  Brother 

92 


"SWEET    DAY    OF    REST" 

Hendricks  to  go  home   and  take  dinner  with   him  — 
Brother  Hendrieks'd  preached  for  us  that  day  —  and 
they  all  drove  off  together  before  I'd  had  time  to  speak 
to  Milly. 

"But  that  week,  when  the  Mite  Society  met,  Milly 
was  there  bright  and  early;  and  when  we'd  all  got 
fairly  started  with  our  sewin',  and  everybody  was  in  a 
good-humor,  Sally  Ann  says,  says  she:  'Milly,  I  want 
to  know  why  you  didn't  sing  in  that  voluntary  Sunday. 
I  reckon  everybody  here  wants  to  know,'  says  she,  'but 
nobody  but  me's  got  the  courage  to  ask  you.' 

"And  Milly 's  face  got  as  red  as  a  beet,  and  she  burst 
out  laughin',  and  says  she:  'I  declare,  I'm  ashamed  to 
tell  you  all.  I  reckon  Satan  himself  must  'a'  been 
in  me  last  Sunday.  You  know,'  says  she,  'there's  some 
days  when  everything  goes  wrong  with  a  woman,  and 
last  Sunday  was  one  o"  them  days.  I  got  up  early,' 
says  she,  'and  dressed  the  children  and  fed  my  chickens 
and  strained  the  milk  and  washed  up  the  milk  things 
and  got  breakfast  and  washed  the  dishes  and  cleaned  up 
the  house  and  gethered  the  vegetables  for  dinner  and 
washed  the  children's  hands  and  faces  and  put  their 
Sunday  clothes  on  'em,  and  jest  as  I  was  startin'  to  git 
myself  ready  for  church,'  says  she,  'I  happened  to  think 

93 


AUNT   JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

that  I  hadn't  skimmed  the  milk  for  the  next  day's 
churnin'.  So  I  went  down  to  the  spring-house  and  did 
the  skimmin',  and  jest  as  I  pieked  up  the  cream-jar  to 
put  it  up  on  that  shelf  Sam  built  for  me,  my  foot 
slipped,'  says  she,  'and  down  I  come  and  skinned  my 
elbow  on  the  rock  step,  and  broke  the  jar  all  to  smash 
and  spilled  the  cream  all  over  creation,  and  there  I  was 
—  four  pounds  o'  butter  and  a  fifty-cent  jar  gone,  and 
my  spring-house  in  such  a  mess  that  I  ain't  through 
cleanin'  it  yet,  and  my  right  arm  as  stiff  as  a  poker  ever 
since.' 

"We  all  had  to  laugh  at  the  way  Milly  told  it;  and 
Sally  Ann  says,  'Well,  that  was  enough  to  make  a  saint 
mad.'  'Yes,'  says  Milly,  'and  you  all  know  I'm  far 
from  bein'  a  saint.  However,'  says  she,  'I  picked  up 
the  pieces  and  washed  up  the  worst  o'  the  cream,  and 
then  I  Avent  to  the  house  to  git  myself  ready  for  church, 
and  before  I  could  git  there,  I  heard  Sam  hollerin'  for 
me  to  come  and  sew  a  button  on  his  shirt;  one  of  'em 
had  come  off  while  he  was  tryin'  to  button  it.  And 
when  I  got  out  my  \vork-basket,  the  children  had  been 
playin'  with  it,  and  there  wasn't  a  needle  in  it,  and  my 
thimble  was  gone,  and  I  had  to  hunt  up  the  apron  I  was 
makin'  for  little  Sam  and  git  a  needle  off  that,  and  I  run 

94 


"SWEET    Dx\Y    OF    REST" 

the  needle  into  my  finger,  not  havin'  any  thimble,  and 
got  a  blood  spot  on  the  bosom  o'  the  shirt.  Then,' 
says  she,  'before  I  could  git  my  dress  over  my  head, 
here  come  little  Sam  with  his  clothes  all  dirty  where 
he'd  fell  down  in  the  mud,  and  there  I  had  him  to  dress 
again,  and  that  made  me  madder  still;  and  then,  when 
I  finally  got  out  to  the  wagon,'  says  she,  'I  rubbed  my 
clean  dress  against  the  wheel,  and  that  made  me  mad 
again ;  and  the  nearer  we  got  to  the  church,  the  madder 
I  was;  and  now,'  says  she,  'do  you  reckon  after  all  I'd 
been  through  that  mornin',  and  dinner  ahead  of  me  to 
git,  and  the  children  to  look  after  all  the  evenin',  do 
you  reckon  that  I  felt  like  settin'  up  there  and  singin' 
"Welcome,  sweet  day  o'  rest"?'  Says  she,  'I  ain't 
seen  any  day  o'  rest  since  the  day  I  married  Sam,  and 
I  don't  expect  to  see  any  till  the  day  I  die;  and  if  Parson 
Page  wants  that  hymn  sung,  let  him  git  up  a  choir  of 
old  maids  and  old  bachelors,  for  they're  the  only  people 
that  ever  see  anv  rest  Sunday  or  any  other  day.' 

"We  all  laughed,  and  said  we  didn't  blame  INI  illy  a 
bit  for  not  singin'  that  hymn;  and  then  Milly  said:  'I 
reckon  I  mit-ht  as  well  tell  vou  all  the  whole  storv. 

O  *  v 

By  the  time  church  was  over,'  says  she,  'I'd  kind  o' 
cooled  off,  but  when  I  heard  Sam  askin'  Brother  Ilen- 

95 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

dricks  to  go  home  and  take  dinner  with  him,  that  made 
me  mad  again;  for  I  knew  that  meant  a  big  dinner  for 
me  to  cook,  and  I  made  up  my  mind  then  and  there 
that  I  wouldn't  eook  a  blessed  thing,  company  or  no 
company.  Sanvd  killed  chickens  the  night  before,' 
says  she,  'and  they  was  all  dressed  and  ready,  down  in 
the  spring-house;  and  the  vegetables  was  right  there 
on  the  back  porch,  but  I  never  touched  'em,'  says  she. 
'I  happened  to  have  some  cold  ham  and  cold  mutton 
on  hand  —  not  much  of  either  one  —  and  I  sliced  'em 
and  put  the  ham  in  one  end  o'  the  big  meat-dish  and 
the  mutton  in  the  other,  with  a  big  bare  place  between, 
so's  everybody  could  see  that  there  wasn't  enough  of 
either  one  to  go  'round;  and  then,'  says  she,  'I  sliced  up 
a  loaf  o'  my  salt-risin'  bread  and  got  out  a  bowl  o' 
honey  and  a  dish  o'  damson  preserves,  and  then  I  wrent 
out  on  the  porch  and  told  Sam  that  dinner  wTas 
ready.' 

"I  never  shall  forgit  how  we  all  laughed  when  Mill}' 
was  tellin'  it.  'You  know,  Aunt  Jane,'  says  she,  'how 
quick  a  man  gits  up  when  you  tell  him  dinner's  ready. 
Well,  Sam  he  jumps  up,  and  says  he,  "Why,  you're 
mijjhty  smart  to-dav,  Millv;  I  don't  believe  there's 

O          •/  «/  */ 

another  woman  in  the  county  that  could  git  a  Sunday 

96 


"SWEET    DAY    OF    REST'* 

dinner  this  quick."  And  says  he,  "Walk  out,  Brother 
Hendricks,  walk  right  out."' 

Here  Aunt  Jane  paused  to  laugh  again  at  the  long- 
past  scene  that  her  words  called  up. 

"Milly  used  to  say  that  Sam's  face  changed  quicker'n 
a  flash  o'  lightnin'  \vhen  he  saw  the  table,  and  he 
dropped  down  in  his  cheer  and  forgot  to  ask  Brother 
Hendricks  to  say  grace.  'Why,  Milly,'  says  he, 
'where's  the  dinner?  Where's  them  chickens  I  killed 
last  night,  and  the  potatoes  and  corn  and  butter-beans  ?' 
And  Milly  jest  looked  him  square  in  the  face,  and  says 
she,  'The  chickens  are  in  the  spring- house  and  the 
vegetables  out  on  the  back  porch,  and,'  says  she,  'do 
you  suppose  I'm  goin'  to  cook  a  hot  dinner  for  you  all 
on  this  "sweet  day  o'  rest"?" 

Aunt  Jane  stopped  again  to  laugh. 

"That  wasn't  a  polite  way  for  anybody  to  talk  at  their 
own  table,"  she  resumed,  "and  some  of  us  asked  Milly 
what  Brother  Hendricks  said.  And  Milly 's  face  got 
as  red  as  a  beet  again,  and  she  says:  'Why,  he 
behaved  so  nice,  he  made  me  feel  right  ashamed  o' 
myself  for  actin'  so  mean.  He  jest  reached  over  and 
helped  himself  to  everything  he  could  reach,  and 
says  he,  "This  dinner  may  not  suit  you,  Brother 

97 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

Amos,  but  it's  plenty  good  for  me,  and  jest  the 
kind  I'm  used  to  at  home."  Says  he,  "I'd  rather 
eat  a  cold  dinner  any  time  than  have  a  woman 
toilin'  over  a  hot  stove  for  me."'  And  when  he  said 
that,  Milly  up  and  told  him  why  it  was  she  didn't 
feel  like  gittin'  a  hot  dinner,  and  why  she  didn't  sing  in 
the  voluntary;  and  when  she'd  got  through,  he  says, 
'Well,  Sister  Amos,  if  I'd  been  through  all  you  have  this 
rnornin'  and  then  had  to  git  up  and  give  out  such  a  hymn 
as  "Welcome,  sweet  day  o'  rest,"  I  believe  I'd  be  mad 
enough  to  pitch  the  hymn-book  and  the  Bible  at  the 
deacons  and  the  elders.'  And  then  he  turns  around  to 
Sam,  and  says  he,  'Did  you  ever  think,  Brother  Amos, 
that  there  ain't  a  pleasure  men  enjoy  that  women  don't 
have  to  suffer  for  it  ? '  And  Milly  said  that  made  her 
feel  meaner 'n  ever;  and  when  supper-time  come,  she 
lit  the  fire  and  got  the  best  hot  supper  she  could  —  fried 
chicken  and  waffles  and  hot  soda-biscuits  and  coffee  and 
goodness  knows  what  else.  Now  wasn't  that  jest  like 
a  wroman,  to  give  in  after  she'd  had  her  own  way  for  a 
W7hile  and  could  'a'  kept  on  havin'  it  ?  Abram  used  to 
say  that  women  and  runaway  horses  was  jest  alike;  the 
best  way  to  manage  'em  both  wras  to  give  'em  the  rein 
and  let  'em  go  till  they  got  tired,  and  they'll  always  stop 

98 


"SWEET    DAY    OF    REST" 

before  they  do  any  mischief.  Milly  said  that  supper 
tickled  Sam  pretty  near  to  death.  Sam  was  always 
mighty  proud  o'  Milly's  cookin'. 

"So  that's  how  we  come  to  call  that  hymn  Millv 
Amos'  hymn,  and  as  long  as  Milly  lived  folks'd  look 
at  her  and  laugh  whenever  the  preacher  give  out  '  Wel 
come,  sweet  day  o'  rest.'" 

The  story  was  over.  Aunt  Jane  folded  her  hands,  and 
we  both  surrendered  ourselves  to  happy  silence.  All 
the  faint,  sweet  sounds  that  break  the  stillness  of  a  Sun 
day  in  the  country  came  to  our  cars  in  gentle  symphony, 
—  the  lisp  of  the  leaves,  the  chirp  of  young  chickens 
lost  in  the  mazes  of  billowy  grass,  and  the  rustle  of  the 
silver  poplar  that  turned  into  a  mass  of  molten  silver 
whenever  the  breeze  touched  it. 

"When  you've  lived  as  long  as  I  have,  child,"  said 
Aunt  Jane  presently,  "you'll  feel  that  you've  lived  in 
t\vo  worlds.  A  short  life  don't  see  many  changes,  but  in 
eighty  years  you  can  see  old  things  passin'  away  and 
new  ones  comin'  on  to  take  their  place,  and  when  I  look 
back  at  the  way  Sunday  used  to  be  kept  and  the  way  it's 
kept  now,  it's  jest  like  bein'  in  another  world.  I  hear 
folks  talkin'  about  how  wicked  the  world's  growin'  and 
wishin'  the  could  o  back  to  the  old  times,  but  it  looks 


AUNT   JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

like  to  me  there's  jest  as  much  kindness  and  goodness  in 
folks  nowadays  as  there  was  when  I  was  young;  and  as 
for  keepin'  Sunday,  why,  I've  noticed  all  my  life  that 
the  folks  that's  strictest  about  that  ain't  always  the  best 
Christians,  and  I  reckon  there's  been  more  foolishness 
preached  and  talked  about  keepin'  the  Sabbath  day  holy 
than  about  any  other  one  thing. 

"I  ricollect  some  fifty-odd  years  ago  the  town  folks 
got  to  keepin'  Sunday  mighty  strict.  They  hadn't  had 
a  preacher  for  a  long  time,  and  the  church 'd  been  takin' 
things  easy,  and  finally  they  got  a  new  preacher  from 
down  in  Tennessee,  and  the  first  thing  he  did  was  to 
draw  the  lines  around  'em  close  and  tight  about  keepin' 
Sunday.  Some  o'  the  members  had  been  in  the  habit 
o'  havin'  their  wood  chopped  on  Sunday.  Well,  as  soon 
as  the  new  preacher  come,  he  said  that  Sunday  wood- 
choppin'  had  to  cease  amongst  his  church-members  or 
he'd  have  'em  up  before  the  session.  I  ricollect  old 
Judge  Morgan  swore  he'd  have  his  wood  chopped  any 
day  that  suited  him.  And  he  had  a  load  o'  wood 
carried  down  cellar,  and  the  nigger  man  chopped  all 
day  long  down  in  the  cellar,  and  nobody  ever  would 
'a'  found  it  out,  but  pretty  soon  they  got  up  a  big  revival 
that  lasted  three  months  and  spread  'way  out  into  the 

100 


"SWEET    DAY    OF    REST" 

country,  and  bless  your  life,  old  Judge  Morgan  was  one 
o'  the  first  to  be  converted;  and  when  he  give  in  his  ex- 

O 

perience,  lie  told  about  the  wood-choppin',  and  how 
he  hoped  to  be  forgiven  for  breakin'  the  Sabbath  day. 

"Well,  of  course  us  people  out  in  the  country  wouldn't 
be  outdone  by  the  town  folks,  so  Parson  Page  got  up 
and  preached  on  the  Fourth  Commandment  and  all 
about  that  pore  man  that  was  stoned  to  death  for  pickin' 
up  a  few  sticks  on  the  seventh  day.  And  Sam  Amos, 
he  says  after  meetin'  broke,  says  he,  'It's  my  opinion 
that  that  man  was  a  industrious,  enterprisin'  feller  that 
was  probabiy  pickin'  up  kindlin'-wood  to  make  his 
wife  a  fire,  and,'  says  he,  'if  they  wanted  to  stone  any 
body  to  death  they  better  'a'  picked  out  some  lazy, 
triflin'  feller  that  didn't  have  energy  enough  to  work 
Sunday  or  any  other  day.'  Sam  always  would  have  his 
say,  and  nothin'  pleased  him  better'n  to  talk  back  to 
the  preachers  and  git  the  better  of  'em  in  a  argument. 
I  ricollect  us  women  talked  that  sermon  over  at  the 
Mite  Society,  and  Maria  Petty  says:  'I  don't  know 
but  what  it's  a  wrong  thing  to  say,  but  it  looks  to  me 
like  that  Commandment  wasn't  intended  for  anybody 
but  them  Israelites.  It  was  mighty  easy  for  them  to 
keep  the  Sabbath  day  holy,  but,'  says  she,  'the  Lord 

101 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

don't  rain  down  manna  in  my  yard.  And,'  says  she, 
'men  can  stop  plowin'  and  plantin'  on  Sunday,  but  they 
don't  stop  eatin',  and  as  long  as  men  have  to  eat  on 
Sunday,  women '11  have  to  work.' 

"And  Sally  Ann,  she  spoke  up,  and  says  she,  'That's 
so;  and  these  very  preachers  that  talk  so  much  about 
keepin'  the  Sabbath  day  holy,  they'll  walk  down  out  o' 
their  pulpits  and  set  down  at  some  woman's  table  and 
eat  fried  chicken  and  hot  biscuits  and  corn  bread  and 
five  or  six  kinds  o'  vegetables,  and  never  think  about 
the  \vork  it  took  to  git  the  dinner,  to  say  nothin'  o'  the 
dish-washin'  to  come  after.' 

"There's  one  thing,  child,  that  I  never  told  to  any 
body  but  Abram;  I  reckon  it  was  wicked,  and  I  ought 
to  be  ashamed  to  own  it,  but"  —here  her  voice  fell  to 
a  confessional  key— -"I  never  did  like  Sunday  till  I 
begun  to  git  old.  And  the  way  Sunday  used  to  be  kept, 
it  looks  to  me  like  nobody  could  'a'  been  expected  to 
like  it  but  old  folks  and  lazy  folks.  You  see,  I  never 
was  one  o'  these  folks  that's  born  tired.  I  loved  to 
work.  I  never  had  need  of  any  more  rest  than  I  got 
every  night  when  I  slept,  and  I  woke  up  every  mornin' 
ready  for  the  day's  work.  I  hear  folks  prayin'  for  rest 
and  wishin'  for  rest,  but,  honey,  all  my  prayer  was, 

102 


"SWEET    DAY    OF    REST" 

'Lord,  give  me  work,  and  strength  enough  to  do  it.' 
And  when  a  person  looks  at  all  the  things  there  is  to  he 
done  in  this  world,  the}7  won't  feel  like  restin'  \vhen  they 
ain't  tired. 

"Abram  used  to  say  he  believed  I  tried  to  make 
wrork  for  myself  Sunday  and  every  other  day;  and  I 
ricollect  I  used  to  be  right  glad  when  any  o'  the  neigh- 
bors'd  git  sick  on  Sunday  and  send  for  me  to  help  nurse 
'em.  Nursing  the  siek  was  a  work  o'  necessity,  and 
mercy,  too.  And  then,  child,  the  Lord  don't  ever  rest. 
The  Bible  says  He  rested  on  the  seventh  day  when  He 
got  through  makin'  the  world,  and  I  reckon  that  was 
rest  enough  for  Him.  For,  jest  look;  everything  goes 
on  Sundays  jest  the  same  as  week-days.  The  grass 
grows,  and  the  sun  shines,  and  the  wind  blows,  and  He 
does  it  all." 

"  'For  still  the  Lord  is  Lord  of  might; 
In  deeds,  in  deeds  He  takes  delight, 

I  said. 

"That's  it,"  said  Aunt  Jane,  delightedly.  "There 
ain't  any  religion  in  restin'  unless  you're  tired,  r,nd 
work's  jest  as  holy  in  his  sight  as  rest." 

Our  faces  were  turned  toward  the  western  sky, 
where  the  sun  was  sinking  behind  the  amethystine  hills. 

103 


AUNT   JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

The  swallows  were  darting  and  twittering  over  our  heads, 
a  somber  flock  of  blackbirds  rose  from  a  huge  oak  tree 
in  the  meadow  across  the  road,  and  darkened  the  sky 
for  a  moment  in  their  flight  to  the  cedars  that  were  their 
nightly  resting  place.  Gradually  the  mist  changed 
from  amethyst  to  rose,  and  the  poorest  object  shared 
in  the  transfiguration  of  the  sunset  hour. 

Is  it  unmeaning  chance  that  sets  man's  days,  his 
dusty,  common  days,  between  the  glories  of  the  rising 
and  the  setting  sun,  and  his  life,  his  dusty,  common  life, 
between  the  two  solemnities  of  birth  and  death  ? 
Bounded  by  the  splendors  of  the  morning  and  evening 
skies,  \vhat  glory  of  thought  and  deed  should  each  day 
hold !  What  celestial  dreams  and  vitalizing  sleep  should 
fill  our  nights !  For  why  should  day  be  more  magnifi 
cent  than  life  ? 

As  we  watched  in  understanding  silence,  the  enchant 
ment  slowly  faded.  The  day  of  rest  was  over,  a  night 
of  rest  was  at  hand;  and  in  the  shadowy  hour  between 
the  two  hovered  the  benediction  of  that  peace  which 
"passeth  all  understanding." 


104 


V 
MILLY   BAKER'S    BOY 


IT  was  the  last  Monday  in  May, 
j  j> 

and  a  steady  stream  of  wagons, 

carriages,  and  horseback  riders  had  been  pouring  into 
town  over  the  smooth,  graveled  pike. 

Aunt  Jane  stood  on  her  front  porch,  looking  around 
and  above  with  evident  delight.  This  was  her  gala 
Monday;  and  if  any  thoughts  of  the  County  Court  days 
of  happier  years  were  in  her  mind,  they  were  not  per 
mitted  to  mar  her  enjoyment  of  the  present.  There 
were  no  waters  of  Marah  near  her  spring  of  remem 
brance. 

107 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

"Clear  as  a  whistle!"  she  exclaimed,  peering  through 
the  tendrils  of  a  Virginia  creeper  at  the  sea  of  blue 
ether  where  fleecy  white  clouds  were  floating,  driven 
eastward  by  the  fresh  spring  wind.  "Folks'll  come 
home  dry  to-night;  last  time  they  was  as  wet  as  drowned 
rats.  Yonder  comes  the  Crawfords,  and  there's  Jim 
Amos  on  horseback  in  front  of  'em.  How  d'ye,  Jim! 
And  yonder  comes  Richard  Elrod  in  his  new  carriage. 
Jest  look  at  him!  I  do  believe  he  grows  younger  and 
handsomer  every  day  of  his  life." 

A  sweet-faced  woman  sat  beside  him,  and  two  pretty 
girls  were  in  the  seat  behind  them.  Bowing  courte 
ously  to  the  old  woman  on  the  door-step,  Richard 
Elrod  looked  every  inch  a  king  of  the  soil  and  a 
perfect  specimen  of  the  gentleman  farmer  of  Ken 
tucky. 

"The  richest  man  in  the  county,"  said  Aunt  Jane 
exultingly,  as  she  followed  the  vanishing  carriage  with 
her  keen  gaze.  "He  went  to  the  legislatur'  last  winter; 
the  'Hon.  Richard  Elrod'  they  call  him  now.  And  I 
can  remember  the  time  when  he  was  jest  Milly  Baker's 
bov,  and  nothin'  honorable  about  it,  either." 

There  was  a  suggestion  of  a  story  in  the  words  and 
in  the  look  in  Aunt  Jane's  eyes.  What  wonder  that 

108 


MILLY    BAKER'S    BOY 

the  tides  of  thought  flowed  back  into  the  channel  of  old 
times  on  a  day  like  this,  when  every  passing  face  was 
a  challenge  to  memory  ?  It  needed  but  a  hint  to  bring 
forth  the  recollections  that  the  sight  of  Richard  Elrod 
had  stirred  to  life.  The  high-back  rocker  and  the 
basket  of  knitting  were  transferred  to  the  porch;  and 
with  the  beauty  and  the  music  of  a  spring  morning 
around  us  I  listened  to  the  story  of  Milly  Baker's 
boy. 

"I  hardly  know  jest  where  to  begin,"  said  Aunt  Jane, 
wrinkling  her  forehead  meditatively  and  adjusting  her 
needles.  "Tellin'  a  story  is  somethin'  like  windin'  off 
a  skein  o'  yarn.  There's  jest  two  ends  to  the  skein, 
though,  and  if  you  can  git  hold  o'  the  right  one  it's  easy 
work.  But  there's  so  many  ways  o'  beginning  a  story, 
and  you  never  know  which  one  leads  straightest  to  the 
p'int.  I  wonder  many  a  time  how  folks  ever  finds  out 
where  to  begin  when  they  set  out  to  write  a  book. 
However,  I  reckon  if  I  start  with  Dick  Elrod  I'll  git 
through  somehow  or  other. 

"You  asked  me  jest  now  who  Richard  Elrod  was. 
He  was  the  son  o'  Dick  Elrod,  and  Dick  was  the  son  of 
Richard  Elrod,  the  old  Squire.  It's  curious  how  you'll 
name  two  boys  Richard,  and  one  of  'em  will  always  be 

109 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

called  Richard  and  the  other'll  be  called  Dick.  No 
body  ever  would  'a'  thought  o'  callin'  Squire  Elrod 
'Dick,'  he  was  Richard  from  the  day  he  was  born  till 
the  day  he  died.  But  his  son  was  nothin'  but  Dick  all 
his  life;  Richard  didn't  seem  to  fit  him  somehow. 
And  I've  noticed  that  you  can  tell  what  sort  of  a  man 
a  boy's  goin'  to  make  jest  by  knowin'  whether  folks 
calls  him  Richard  or  Dick.  I  ain't  savin'  that  every 
Richard  is  a  good  man  and  every  Dick  a  bad  one.  All 
I  mean  is  that  there's  as  much  difference  betwixt  a 
'Dick'  and  a  'Richard'  as  there  is  betwixt  a  roastin' 
ear  and  a  peck  o'  corn  meal.  Both  of  'em's  corn,  and 
both  of  'em  may  be  good,  but  they  ain't  the  same  thing 
by  a  long  jump.  There's  been  a  Richard  in  the  Elrod 
family  as  far  back  as  you  could  track  'em;  all  of  'em 
good,  steady,  God-fearin'  men  till  Dick  come  along. 
He  was  an  only  child,  and  of  course  that  made  a  bad 
matter  worse. 

"There's  some  men  that's  born  to  git  women  into 
trouble,  and  Dick  was  one  of  'em.  Jest  as  handsome  as 
a  picture,  and  two  years  ahead  o'  his  age  when  it  come 
to  size,  and  a  way  about  him,  from  the  time  he  put  on 
pants,  that  showed  jest  what  kind  of  a  man  he  was  cut 
out  for.  If  the  children  was  playin'  'Jinny,  Put  the 

110 


MILLY    BAKER'S    BOY 

Kittle  on,'  Dick  would  git  kissed  ten  times  to  any  other 
boy's  once;  and  if  it  was  'Drop  the  Handkerchief,' 
every  little  gyirl  in  the  ring'd  be  droppin'  it  behind 
Dick  to  git  him  to  run  after  her,  and  that  was  the  only 
time  Dick  ever  did  any  runnin'.  All  he  had  to  do  was 
jest  to  sit  still,  and  the  gyirls  did  the  runnin'.  It  was 
that  way  all  his  life;  and  folks  used  to  say  there  was 
jest  one  woman  in  the  world  that  Dick  couldn't  make 
a  fool  of,  and  that  was  his  cousin  Penelope,  the  old 
Squire's  brother's  child.  She  used  to  come  down  to  the 
Squire's  pretty  near  every  summer,  and  when  Dick 
saw  how  high  and  mighty  she  wras,  he  begun  to  lay 
himself  out  to  make  her  come  down  jest  where  the  other 
women  was,  not  because  he  keered  anything  for  her, — 
such  men  never  keer  for  anybody  but  theirselves,  —  he 
jest  couldn't  stand  it  to  have  a  woman  around  unless 
she  was  throwin'  herself  at  his  head  or  at  his  feet. 
But  he  couldn't  do  anything  with  his  cousin  Penel 
ope.  She  naturally  despised  him,  and  he  hated  her. 
Next  to  Miss  Penelope,  the  only  girl  that  appeared 
to  be  anything  like  a  match  for  Dick  was  Annie 
Crawford,  Old  Man  Bob  Crawford's  daughter.  Old 
Man  Bob  was  one  o'  the  kind  that  thinks  that 
the  more  children  they've  got  the  bigger  men 

111 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

they  are.  Always  made  me  think  of  Abraham  and 
the  rest  o'  the  old  patriarchs  to  see  him  come 
walkin'  into  church  with  them  nine  young  ones  at 
his  heels,  makin'  so  much  racket  you  couldn't  hear 
the  sermon.  He  was  mighty  proud  of  his  sons;  but 
after  Bob  wras  born  he  wanted  a  daughter;  and  when 
they  all  kept  turnin'  out  boys,  he  got  crazier  and  crazier 
for  a  gyirl.  Annie  wasn't  born  till  he  was  past  sixty, 
and  he  like  to  'a'  lost  his  senses  with  joy.  It  was 
harvestin'  time,  and  he  jest  stopped  work  and  set  on 
his  front  porch,  and  every  time  anybody  passed  by  he'd 
holler,  'Well;  neighbor,  it's  a  gal  this  time!'  If  I'd  'a' 
been  in  Ann  'Liza's  place,  I'd  'a'  gagged  him.  But  la! 
she  thought  everything  he  did  was  all  right.  It  got  to 
be  a  reg'lar  joke  with  the  neighbors  to  ask  Old  Man 
Bob  how  many  children  he  had,  and  he'd  give  a  big 
laugh  and  say,  'Ten,  neighbor,  and  all  of  'em  gals  but 
nine.' 

"Well,  of  course  Annie  was  bound  to  be  spoiled, 
especially  as  her  mother  died  when  she  was  jest  four 
years  old.  How  Ann  'Liza  ever  stood  Old  Man  Bob 
and  them  nine  boys  as  long  as  she  did  was  a  mystery  to 
everybody.  Ann  'Liza  had  done  her  best  to  manage 
Annie,  with  Old  Man  Bob  pullin'  against  her  all  the 

112 


MILLY    BAKER'S    BOY 

time,  but  after  she  died  Annie  took  the  place  and  every 
thing  and  everybody  on  it.  Old  Man  Bob  had  raised 
all  his  boys  on  spare-the-rod-and-spile-the-child  princi 
ple,  but  when  Annie  come,  he  turned  his  back  on 
Solomon  and  give  out  that  Annie  mustn't  be  crossed 
by  anybody.  Sam  Amos  asked  him  once  how  he  come 
to  change  his  mind  so  about  raisin'  children,  and  Old 
Man  Bob  said  he  was  of  the  opinion  that  that  text 
ought  to  read,  'Spare  the  rod  and  spile  the  boy';  that 
Solomon  had  too  much  regyard  tor  women  to  want  to 
whip  a  gal  child.  If  ever  there  was  an  old  idiot  he  was 
one;  I  mean  Old  Man  Bob,  not  Solomon;  though 
Solomon  wasn't  as  wise  as  he  might  'a'  been  in  some 
things. 

"Well,  Annie  was  a  headstrong,  high-tempered 
child  to  begin  with;  and  havin'  nobody  to  control  her, 
she  got  to  be  the  worst  young  one,  I  reckon,  in  the  State 
o'  Kentucky.  I  used  to  feel  right  sorry  for  her  little 
brothers.  They  couldn't  keep  a  top  or  a  ball  or  marble 
or  any  plaything  to  save  their  lives.  Annie  would  cry 
for  'em  jest  for  pure  meanness,  and  whatever  it  was 
that  Annie  cried  for  they  had  to  give  it  up  or  git  a 
whippin'.  She'd  break  up  their  rabbit-traps  and  their 
bird-cages  and  the  little  wheelbarrers  and  wagons 

113 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

they'd  make,  and  they  didn't  have  any  peace  at  home, 
pore  little  motherless  things.  I  ricollcct  one  day  little 
Jim  come  runnin'  over  to  my  house  draggin'  his  wagon 
loaded  up  Avith  all  his  playthings,  his  little  sa\v  and 
hammer  and  some  nails  the  cyarpenters  had  give  him 
Avhen  Old  Man  Bob  had  his  new  stable  built,  and  says 
he,  'Aunt  Jane,  please  let  me  keep  my  tools  OArer 
here.  Annie  says  she's  goin'  to  throw  'em  in  the 
well,  and  pappy'll  make  me  give  'em  to  her  if  she 
cries  for  'em.'  Them  tools  stayed  at  my  house  till 
Jim  outgrowed  'em,  and  he  and  Henry,  the  other  little 
one,  used  to  come  and  stay  by  the  hour  playin'  with 
my  Abram. 

"It  Avas  all  Old  Man  Bob  could  do  to  git  a  house 
keeper  to  stay  with  him  Avhen  Annie  got  older.  One 
spring  she  broke  up  all  the  hen  nests  and  turkey  nests 
on  the  farm,  and  they  had  to  buy  chickens  all  summer 
and  turkeys  all  next  winter.  They  used  to  tell  how  she 
stood  and  hollered  for  two  hours  one  day  because  the 
housekeeper  Avouldn't  let  her  put  her  hand  into  a  kittle 
o'  boilin'  lye  soap.  It's  my  belief  that  she  Avas  all  that 
kept  Old  Man  Bob  from  marryin' again  in  less'n  a  year 
after  Ann  'Liza  died.  He  courted  three  or  four  wid- 
ders  and  old  maids  round  the  neighborhood,  but  there 

114 


MILLY    BAKER'S    BOY 

wasn't  one  of  'em  that  anxious  to  marry  that  she'd  take 
Old  Man  Bob  with  Annie  thrown  in.  As  soon  as  she 
got  old  enough,  Old  Man  Bob  carried  her  with  him 
wherever  he  went.  County  Court  days  you'd  see  him 
goin'  along  on  his  big  gray  mare  with  Annie  behind 
him,  holdin'  on  to  the  sides  of  his  coat  with  her  little 
fat  hands,  her  sunbonnet  fallin'  off  and  her  curls  blowin' 
all  around  her  face,  —  like  as  not  she  hadn't  had  'em 
combed  for  a  week,  —  and  in  the  evenin'  about  sunset 
here  they'd  come,  Annie  in  front  fast  asleep,  and  Old 
Man  Bob  holdin'  her  on  one  arm  and  guidin'  his  horse 
with  the  other.  Ilarvestin'  times  Annie'd  be  out  in 
the  field  settin'  on  a  shock  o'  wheat  and  orderin'  the 
hands  around  same  as  if  she  was  the  overseer;  and  Old 
Man  Bob'd  jest  stand  back  and  shake  his  sides  laughin' 
and  say:  'That's  right,  honey.  Make  'em  move  lively. 
If  it  wasn't  for  you,  pappy  couldn't  git  his  harvestin' 
done.' 

"Every  fall  and  spring  he'd  go  to  town  to  buy  clothes 
for  her,  and  people  used  to  say  the  storekeepers  laid  in 
a  extry  stock  jest  for  Old  Man  Bob,  and  charged  him 
two  or  three  prices  for  everything  he  bought.  He'd 
walk  into  Tom  Baker's  store  with  his  saddle-bags  on 
his  arm  and  holler  out,  'Well,  what  you  got  to-day? 

115 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

Trot  out  your  silks  and  your  satins,  and  remember  that 
the  best  ain't  good  enough  for  my  little  gal.' 

"When  Annie  was  twelve  years  old  he  took  her  off 
to  Bardstown  to  git  her  education.  When  he  come  to 
say  good-bye  to  her,  he  cried  and  she  cried,  and  it  ended 
with  him  settin'  down  and  stayin'  three  weeks  in  Bards- 
town,  waitin'  for  Annie  to  git  over  her  homesickness. 
Folks  never  did  git  through  plaguin'  him  about  goin' 
off  to  boardin'  school,  and  as  soon  as  Sam  Crawford 
seen  him  he  says,  'Well,  Uncle  Bob,  when  do  you 
reckon  you'll  git  your  diploma?' 

"I  never  shall  forgit  the  first  time  Annie  come  home 
to  spend  her  Christmas.  The  neighbors  didn't  have  any 
peace  o'  their  lives  for  Old  Man  Bob  tellin'  'em  how 
Annie  had  growed,  and  how  there  wasn't  a  gal  in  the 
state  that  could  hold  a  candle  to  her.  And  Sunday  he 
come  walkin'  in  church  with  Annie  hangin'  on  to  his 
arm  jest  as  proud  and  happy  as  if  he'd  got  a  new 
wife. 

"Annie  had  improved  wonderful.  It  wasn't  jest  her 
looks,  for  she  always  was  as  pretty  as  a  picture,  but  she 
was  as  nice-mannered,  well-behaved  a  gyirl  as  you'd 
want  to  see.  There  was  jest  as  much  difference  betwixt 
her  then  and  what  she  used  to  be  as  there  is  betwixt  a 

116 


MILLY    BAKER'S    BOY 

tame  fox  and  a  wild  one.  Of  course  the  wildness  is  all 
there,  but  it's  kind  o'  covered  up  under  a  lot  o'  cute 
little  tricks  and  ways;  and  that's  the  way  it  was  with 
Annie.  Squire  Elrod's  pew  was  jest  across  the  aisle 
from  Old  Man  Bob's,  and  I  could  see  Dick  watchin' 
her  durin'  church  time.  But  Annie  never  looked  one 
way  nor  the  other.  She  set  there  with  her  hands 
folded  and  her  eyes  straight  before  her,  and  nobody 
ever  would  'a' thought  that  she'd  been  ridin'  horses  bare 
back  and  climbin'  eight-rail  fences  ever  since  she  could 
walk,  mighty  near. 

"When  she  come  back  from  school  in  June  it  was 
the  same  thing  over  again,  Old  Man  Bob  braggin'  on 
her  and  everybody  say  in'  how  sweet  and  pretty  she 
was.  Dick  ,)egan  to  wait  on  her  right  away,  and 
before  long  folks  was  sayin'  that  they  was  made 
for  each  other,  especially  as  their  farms  jined.  That's 
a  fool  notion,  but  you  can't  git  it  out  o'  some  people's 
heads. 

"Things  went  on  this  way  for  two  or  three  years, 
Annie  goin'  and  comin'  and  gittin'  prettier  all  the  time, 
and  Dick  waitin'  on  her  whenever  she  was  at  home  and 
carryin'  on  between  times  with  every  gyirl  in  the  neigh 
borhood.  At  last  she  come  home  for  good,  and  Dick 

117 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

dropped  all  the  others  in  a  hurry  and  set  out  in  earnest 
to  git  Annie.  Folks  said  he  was  mightily  in  love,  but 
accordin'  to  my  way  o'  thinkin'  there  wasn't  any  love 
about  it.  The  long  and  the  short  of  it  was  that  Annie 
knew  how  to  manage  him,  and  the  other  gyirls  didn't. 
They  was  always  right  there  in  the  neighborhood,  and 
it  don't  help  a  woman  to  be  always  under  a  man's  nose. 
But  Annie  was  here  and  there  and  everywhere,  visitin' 
in  town  and  in  Louisville  and  bringin'  the  town  folks 
and  the  city  folks  home  with  her,  and  havin'  dances 
and  picnics,  and  doin'  all  she  could  to  make  Dick 
jealous.  And  then  I  always  believed  that  Annie  was 
jest  as  crazy  about  Dick  as  the  rest  o'  the  gyirls, 
but  she  had  sense  enough  not  to  let  him  know  it. 
It's  human  nature,  you  know,  to  want  things  that's 
hard  to  git.  Why,  if  fleas  and  mosquitoes  was  sceerce, 
folks  would  go  to  huntin'  'em  and  makin'  a  big  fuss 
over  'em.  Annie  made  herself  hard  to  git,  and  that's 
why  Dick  wanted  her  instead  o'  Harriet  Amos,  that 
was  jest  as  good  lookin'  and  better  in  every  other  way 
than  Annie  was.  Everybody  was  sayin'  what  a  blessed 
thing  it  was,  and  now  Dick  would  give  up  his  wild  ways 
and  settle  down  and  be  a  comfort  to  the  Squire  in  his 
old  age. 

118 


MILLY    BAKER'S    BOY 

"Well,  along  in  the  spring,  a  year  after  Annie  got 
through  with  school,  Sally  Ann  come  to  me,  and  says 
she,  'Jane,  I  saw  somethin'  last  night  and  it's  been 
botherin'  me  ever  since;'  and  she  went  on  to  say  how 
she  was  goin'  home  about  dusk,  and  how  she'd  seen 
Dick  Elrod  and  little  Milly  Baker  at  the  turn  o'  the 
lane  that  used  to  lead  up  to  Milly 's  house.  'They  was 
standin'  under  the  wild  cherry  tree  in  the  fence  corner,' 
says  she,  '  and  the  elderberry  bushes  was  so  thick  that  I 
could  jest  see  Dick's  head  and  shoulders  and  the  top  o' 
Milly 's  head,  but  they  looked  to  be  mighty  close  to 
gether,  and  Dick  was  stoopin'  over  and  whisperin' 
somethin'  to  her.' 

"Well,  that  set  me  to  thinkin',  and  I  ricollected  seein' 
Dick  comin'  down  the  lane  one  evenin'  about  sunset, 
and  at  the  same  time  I'd  caught  sight  o'  Milly  walkin' 
away  in  the  opposite  direction.  Our  Mite  Society  met 
that  day,  and  Sally  Ann  and  me  had  it  up,  and  we  all 
talked  it  over.  It  come  out  that  every  woman  there 
had  seen  the  same  things  we'd  been  seein',  but  nobody 
said  anything  about  it  as  long  as  they  wasn't  certain. 
'Somethin'  ought  to  be  done,'  says  Sally  Ann;  'it'd 
be  a  shame  to  let  that  pore  child  go  to  destruction 
ri<rht  before  our  eves  when  a  word  mi<>;ht  save  her. 

O          ,  *- 

110 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

She's  fatherless,  and  pretty  near  motherless,  too,'  says 
she. 

"You  see,  the  Bakers  was  tenants  of  old  Squire 
Elrod's,  and  after  Milly's  father  died  o'  consumption 
the  old  Squire  jest  let  'em  live  on  the  same  as  before. 
Mis'  Elrod  give  'em  quiltin'  and  sewin'  to  do,  and  they 
had  their  little  gyarden,  and  managed  to  git  along  well 
enough.  Some  folks  called  'em  pore  white  trash. 
They  was  pore  enough,  goodness  knows,  but  they  was 
clean  and  hard-workin',  and  that's  two  things  that 
'trash'  never  is.  I  used  to  hear  that  Milly's  mother 
come  of  a  good  family,  but  she'd  married  beneath  her 
self  and  got  down  in  the  world  like  folks  always  do 
when  they're  cast  off  by  their  own  people.  Milly  had 
come  up  like  a  wild  rose  in  a  fence  corner,  and  she  was 
jest  the  kind  of  a  girl  to  be  fooled  by  a  man  like  Dick, 
handsome  and  smooth  talkin',  with  all  the  ways  and 
manners  that  take  women  in.  Em'ly  Crawford  used 
to  say  it  made  her  feel  like  a  queen  jest  to  see  Dick 
take  his  hat  off  to  her.  If  men's  manners  matched 
their  hearts,  honey,  this'd  be  a  heap  easier  world  for 
women.  But  whenever  you  see  a  man  that's  got  good 
manners  and  a  bad  heart,  you  may  know  there's 
trouble  ahead  for  some  woman. 

120 


MILLY    BAKER'S    BOY 

"Well,  us  women  talked  it  over  till  dark  come;  and 
I  reckon  if  we  had  app'inted  a  committee  to  look  after 
Milly  and  Dick,  somethin'  might  have  been  done. 
But  everybody's  business  is  nobody's  business,  and  I 
thought  Sally  Ann  would  go  to  Milly  and  give  her 
a  word  o'  warnin',  and  Sally  Ann  thought  I'd  do  it, 
and  so  it  went,  and  nothin'  was  said  or  done  at  last; 
and  before  long  it  was  all  over  the  neighborhood  that 
pore  little  Milly  was  in  trouble." 

Aunt  Jane  paused,  took  off  her  glasses  and 
wiped  them  carefully  on  a  corner  of  her  gingham 
apron. 

"Many's  the  time,"  she  said  slowly,  "that  I've  laid 
awake  till  the  chickens  crowed,  blamin'  myself  and 
wonderin'  how  far  I  was  responsible  for  Milly 's  mis 
hap.  I've  lived  a  long  time  since  then,  and  I  don't 
worry  any  more  about  such  things.  There's  some 
things  that's  got  to  be;  and  when  a  person  is  all  wore 
out  tryin'  to  find  out  why  this  thing  happened  and  why 
that  thing  didn't  happen,  he  can  jest  throw  himself 
back  on  the  eternal  decrees,  and  it's  like  layin'  down 
on  a  good  soft  feather  bed  after  you've  done  a  hard  day's 
work.  The  preachers'll  tell  you  that  every  man  is  his 
brother's  keeper,  but  'tain't  so.  I  ain't  my  brother's 

121 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

keeper,  nor  my  sister's,  neither.  There's  jest  one  per 
son  I've  got  to  keep,  and  that's  myself. 

"The  Bible  says,  'A  word  spoken  in  due  season, 
how  good  it  is!'  But  when  folks  is  in  love  there  ain't 
any  due  season  for  speakin'  warnin'  words  to  'em. 
There  was  Emmeline  Amos:  her  father  told  her  if  she 
married  Hal,  he'd  cut  her  name  out  o'  the  family  Bible 
and  leave  her  clear  out  o'  his  will.  But  that  didn't 
hinder  her.  She  went  right  on  and  married  him,  and 
lived  to  rue  the  day  she  did  it.  No,  child,  there's 
mighty  little  salvation  by  words  for  folks  that's  in  love. 
I  reckon  if  a  word  from  me  would  'a'  saved  Milly,  the 
word  would  'a'  been  given  to  me,  and  the  season  too,  and 
as  they  wasn't,  why  I  hadn't  any  call  to  blame  myself. 

"Abram  and  Sam  Crawford  did  try  to  talk  to  Old 
Man  Bob;  but,  la!  you  might  as  well  'a'  talked  to  the 
east  wind.  All  he  said  was,  'If  Annie  wants  Dick, 
Elrod,  Annie  shall  have  him.'  That's  what  he'd  been 
savin'  ever  since  Annie  was  born.  Nobody  said  any 
thing  to  Annie,  for  she  was  the  sort  o'  girl  who  didn't 
care  Avhose  feelin's  was  tramped  on,  if  she  jest  had  her 
own  way. 

"So  it  went  on,  and  the  weddin'  day  was  set,  and 
nothin'  was  talked  about  but  Annie's  first-day  dress 

122 


MILLY    BAKER'S    BOY 

and  Annie's  second-day  dress,  and  how  many  ruffles 
she  had  on  her  petticoats,  and  what  the  lace  on  her 
nightgowns  cost;  and  all  the  time  there  was  pore  Milly 
Baker  cryin'  her  eyes  out  night  and  day,  and  us  women 
gittin'  up  all  our  old  baby  clothes  for  Dick  Elrod's 
unborn  child." 

Aunt  Jane  dropped  her  knitting  in  her  lap,  and 
gazed  across  the  fields  as  if  she  were  seeking  in  the 
sunlit  ether  the  faces  of  those  who  moved  and  spoke 
in  her  story.  A  farm  wagon  came  lumbering  through 
the  stillness,  and  she  gathered  up  the  double  thread  of 
story  and  knitting  and  wyent  on. 

"Annie  always  said  she  was  goin'  to  have  such  a 
weddin'  as  the  county  never  had  seen,  and  she  kept 
her  word.  Old  Man  Bob  had  the  house  fixed  up  inside 
and  out.  They  sent  up  to  Louisville  for  the  cakes  and 
things,  and  the  weddin'  cake  was  three  feet  high. 
There  was  a  solid  gold  ring  in  it,  and  the  bridesmaids 
cut  for  it;  and  every  gyirl  there  had  a  slice  o'  the  bride's 
cake  to  carry  home  to  dream  on  that  night.  Annie's 
weddin'  dress  was  white  satin  so  heavy  it  stood  alone, 
so  they  said.  And  Old  Man  Bob  had  the  whole  neigh 
borhood  laughin',  tellin'  how  many  heifers  and  steers 
it  took  to  pay  for  the  lace  around  the  neck  of  it. 

123 


AUNT   JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

"Annie  and  Dick  was  married  in  October  about  the 
time  the  leaves  fell,  and  Milly's  boy  was  born  the  last 
o'  November.  Lord !  Lord !  what  a  world  this  is !  Old 
Man  Bob  wouldn't  hear  to  Annie's  leavin'  him,  so  they 
stayed  right  on  in  the  old  home  place.  In  them  days 
folks  didn't  go  a-lopin'  all  over  creation  as  soon  as  they 
got  married;  they  settled  down  to  housekeepin'  like 
sensible  folks  ought  to  do.  Old  Lady  Elrod  was  as 
foolish  over  Dick  as  Old  Man  Bob  was  over  Annie, 
and  it  was  laid  down  beforehand  that  they  was  to 
spend  half  the  time  at  Old  Man  Bob's  and  half  the 
time  at  the  Squire's,  'bout  the  worst  thing  they  could 
'a'  done.  The  further  a  young  couple  can  git  from 
the  old  folks  on  both  sides  the  better  for  everybody 
concerned.  And  besides,  Annie  wasn't  the  kind  of  a 
gyirl  to  git  along  with  Dick's  mother.  A  gyirl  with  the 
kind  o'  raisin'  Annie'd  had  wasn't  any  fit  daughter-in- 
law  for  a  particular,  high-steppin'  woman  like  Old 
Lady  Elrod. 

"There  was  some  people  that  expected  a  heap  o' 
Dick  after  he  married,  but  I  never  did.  If  a  man  can't 
be  faithful  to  a  woman  before  he  marries  her,  he  ain't 
likely  to  be  faithful  after  he  marries  her.  And  shore 
enough  the  shine  wasn't  off  o'  Annie's  weddin'  clothes 

124 


MILLY    BAKER'S    BOY 

before  Dick  was  back  to  his  old  ways,  drinkin'  and 
carry  in'  on  with  the  women  same  as  ever,  and  the  first 
thing  wrc  knew,  him  and  Annie  had  a  big  quarrel,  and 
Old  Man  Bob  had  ordered  him  off  the  place.  How 
ever,  they  made  it  up  and  went  over  to  the  old  Squire's 
to  live,  and  things  went  on  well  enough  till  Annie's 
baby  was  born.  Dick  had  set  his  heart  on  havin'  a 
boy,  but  it  turned  out  a  girl,  and  as  soon  as  they  told 
him,  he  never  even  asked  how  Annie  wras,  but  jest  wrent 
out  to  the  stable  and  saddled  his  horse  and  galloped 
off,  and  nobody  seen  him  for  two  days.  He  needn't 
'a'  took  on  so,  for  the  pore  little  thing  didn't  live  but  a 
week.  Annie  had  convulsions  over  Dick's  leavin'  her 
that  way,  and  the  doctor  said  that  was  what  killed  the 
child.  Annie  never  wras  the  same  after  this.  She 
grieved  for  her  child  and  lost  her  good  looks,  and  when 
she  lost  them,  she  lost  Dick.  It  wasn't  long  before  Dick 
was  livin'  with  his  father,  and  she  with  hers.  At  last 
he  went  out  West;  and  in  less  than  three  years  Annie 
died;  and  a  good  thing  she  did,  for  a  more  soured,  dis 
appointed  woman  couldn't  'a'  been  found  anywhere. 

""Well,  all  this  time  Milly  Baker's  baby  wras  growin' 
in  grace,  you  might  say.  And  a  finer  child  never  was 
born.  Milly  had  named  him  Richard,  and  nature  had 

125 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

wrote  his  father's  name  all  over  him.  He  was  the 
livin'  image  of  Dick,  all  but  the  look  in  his  eyes;  that 
was  Milly's.  Milly  Avorshiped  him,  and  there  was 
few  children  raised  any  carefuler  and  better  than  Milly 
Baker's  boy;  that  was  what  we  always  called  him. 
Milly  was  nothin'  but  a  child  herself  when  he  wras  born, 
but  all  at  once  she  appeared  to  turn  to  a  woman;  acted 
like  one  and  looked  like  one.  It  ain't  time,  honey, 
that  makes  people  old;  it's  experience.  Some  folks 
never  git  over  bein'  children,  and  some  never  has  any 
childhood;  and  pore  little  Milly's  was  cut  short  by 
trouble.  If  she  felt  ashamed  of  herself  or  the  child, 
nobody  ever  knew  it.  I  never  could  tell  whether  it 
was  lack  of  sense,  or  whether  she  jest  looked  at  things 
different  from  the  rest  of  us;  but  to  see  her  walk  in 
church  holding  little  Richard  by  the  hand,  nobody  ever 
Avould  'a'  thought  but  what  she  was  a  la\vful  wife.  No 
woman  could  'a'  behaved  better 'n  she  did,  I'm  bound 
to  say.  She  got  better  lookin'  all  the  time,  but  she  was 
as  steady  and  sober  as  if  she'd  been  sixty  years  old. 
Parson  Page  said  once  that  Milly  Baker  had  more  dig 
nity  than  any  woman,  young  or  old,  that  he'd  ever  seen. 
It  seems  right  queer  to  talk  about  dignity  in  a  pore 
gyirl  who'd  made  the  misstep  she'd  made,  but  I  reckon 

120 


MILLY    BAKER'S    BOY 

it  was  jest  that  that  made  us  all  come  to  treat  her  as  if 
she  was  as  good  as  anybody.  People  can  set  their  own 
price  on  'emselves,  I've  noticed;  and  if  they  keep  it  set, 
folks'll  come  up  to  it.  Milly  didn't  seem  to  think  that 
she  had  done  anything  wrong;  and  when  she  brought 
little  Richard  up  for  baptism  there  wasn't  a  dry  eye  in 
the  church;  and  when  she  joined  the  church  herself 
there  wasn't  anybody  mean  enough  to  say  a  word 
against  it,  not  even  Silas  Petty. 

"Squire  Elrod  give  her  the  cottage  rent  free  after 
her  mother  died,  and  betwixt  nursin'  and  doin'  fine 
needlework  she  made  a  good  livin'  for  herself  and 
the  boy. 

"Little  Richard  was  a  child  worth  workin'  for  from 
the  start.  Tall  and  straight  as  a  saplin',  and  carried 
himself  like  he  owned  the  earth,  even  when  he  was  a 
little  feller.  It  looked  like  all  the  good  blood  on  both 
sides  had  come  out  in  him,  and  there  wasn't  a  smarter, 
handsomer  boy  in  the  county.  The  old  Squire  thought 
a  heap  of  him,  and  nothin'  but  his  pride  kept  him  from 
ownin'  the  child  outright  and  treatin'  him  like  he  was 
his  own  flesh  and  blood.  Richard  had  an  old  head  on 
young  shoulders,  though  he  was  as  full  o'  life  as  any 
boy;  and  by  the  time  he  was  grown  the  old  Squire 

127 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

trusted  him  with  everything  on  the  place  and  looked 
to  him  the  same  as  if  he'd  been  a  settled  man.  After 
Old  Lad)1  Elrod  died,  he  broke  terrible  fast,  and  folks 
used  to  say  it  was  a  pitiful  sight  to  see  him  when  he'd  be 
watchin'  Richard  ovcrseein'  the  hands  and  tendin'  to 
things  about  the  place.  He'd  lean  on  the  fence,  his 
hands  tremblin'  and  his  face  workin',  thinkin'  about 
Dick  and  grievin'  over  him  and  wishin',  I  reckon,  that 
Dick  had  been  such  a  man  as  Milly's  boy  was. 

"All  these  years  nobody  ever  heard  from  Dick. 
Once  in  a  while  somebody'd  come  from  town  and  say 
they'd  seen  somebody  that  had  seen  somebody  else, 
and  that  somebody  had  seen  Dick  way  out  in  California 
or  Lord  knows  where,  and  that  was  all  the  news  that 
ever  come  back.  We'd  all  jest  about  made  up  our 
minds  that  he  was  dead,  when  one  mornin',  along  in 
corn-plantin'  time,  the  news  was  brought  and  spread 
over  the  neighborhood  in  no  time  that  Dick  Elrod  had 
come  home  and  was  lyin'  at  the  p'int  of  death.  I 
remembered  hearin'  a  hack  go  by  on  the  pike  the  night 
before,  and  wondered  to  myself  what  was  up.  I 
thought,  maybe,  it  was  a  runaway  couple  or  some  such 
matter,  but  it  was  pore  Dick  comin'  back  to  his  father's 
house,  like  the  Prodigal  Son,  after  twenty  years.  It 

128 


MILLY    BAKER'S    BOY 

takes  some  folks  a  long  time,  child,  to  git  tired  of  the 
swine  and  the  husks. 

"Well,  of  course,  it  made  a  big  commotion,  and 
before  we'd  hardly  taken  it  in,  we  heard  that  he'd  sent 
for  Milly,  and  her  and  Richard  had  gone  together  up 
to  the  big  house. 

"Jane  Ann  Petty  was  keepin'  house  for  the  old 
Squire,  and  she  told  us  afterwards  how  it  all  come  about. 

"We  had  a  young  probationer  preachin'  for  us  that 
summer,  and  as  soon  as  he  heard  about  Dick,  he  goes 
up  to  the  big  house  without  bein'  sent  for  to  talk  to  him 
about  his  soul.  I  reckon  he  thought  it'd  be  a  feather  in 
his  cap  if  he  could  convert  a  hardened  sinner  like  Dick. 

"Jane  Ann  said  they  took  him  into  Dick's  room,  and 
he  set  down  by  the  bed  and  begun  to  lay  off  the  plan  o' 
salvation  jest  like  he  was  preachin'  from  the  pulpit,  and 
Dick  listened  and  never  took  his  eyes  off  his  face. 
When  he  got  through  Dick  says,  says  he: 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  all  I've  got  to  do  to  keep 
out  of  hell  and  get  into  heaven  is  to  believe  on  the  Lord 
Jesus  Christ?'  And  Brother  Jonas,  he  says: 

"Yes,  my  dear  brother,  "Believe  on  the  Lord  Jesus 
Christ,  and  thou  shalt  be  saved.  The  blood  of  Jesus 
Christ,  his  Son,  cleanscth  us  from  all  sin.'" 

129 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

"And  they  said  Dick  jest  laughed  a  curious  sort  o' 
laugh  and  says  he: 

"It's  a  pretty  God  that'll  make  such  a  bargain  as 
that!'  And  says  he, 'I  was  born  bad,  I've  lived  bad,  and 
I'm  dyin'  bad;  but  I  ain't  a  coward  nor  a  sneak,  and 
I'm  goin'  to  hell  for  my  sins  like  a  man.  Like  a  man, 
do  you  hear  me?' 

"Jane  Ann  said  the  look  in  his  eyes  was  awful;  and 
the  preacher  turned  white  as  a  sheet.  It  was  curious 
talk  for  a  death-bed;  but,  when  you  come  to  think  about 
it,  it's  reasonable  enough.  When  a  man's  got  hell  in 
his  heart,  what  good  is  it  goin'  to  do  him  to  git  into 
heaven  ?  " 

"What,  indeed?"  I  echoed,  thinking  how  delight 
ful  it  was  that  Aunt  Jane  and  Omar  Khayyam  should 
be  of  one  mind  on  this  subject. 

"When  Dick  said  this  the  young  preacher  got  up  to 
go,  but  Dick  called  him  back,  and  says  he,  'I  don't 
want  any  of  your  preachin'  or  prayin',  but  you  stay 
here;  there's  another  sort  of  a  job  for  you  to  do.'  And 
then  he  turned  around  to  the  old  Squire  and  says, 
'Send  for  Milly.' 

"WTien  we  all  heard  that  Milly'd  been  sent  for,  the 
first  thing  we  thought  was,  'How  on  earth  is  Milly  goin' 

130 


MILLY    BAKER'S    BOY 

to  tell  Richard  all  he's  got  to  know  ?'  I  never  used  to 
think  we  was  anything  over  and  above  the  ordinary  out 
in  our  neighborhood,  but  when  I  ricollect  that  Richard 
Elrod  come  up  from  a  boy  to  a  man  without  knowin' 
who  his  father  was,  it  seems  like  WTC  must  'a'  known 
how  to  hold  our  tongues  anyhow.  There  wasn't  man, 
woman,  or  child  that  ever  hinted  to  Milly  Baker's  boy 
that  he  wasn't  like  other  children,  and  so  it  was  natural 
for  us  to  wonder  how  Milly  was  goin'  to  tell  him.  Well, 
it  wasn't  any  of  our  business,  and  we  never  found  out. 
All  we  ever  did  know  was  that  Milly  and  Richard 
walked  over  to  the  big  house  together,  and  Richard 
held  his  head  as  high  as  ever. 

"They  said  that  Dick  give  a  start  when  Milly  come 
into  the  room.  I  reckon  he  expected  to  see  the  same 
little  girl  he'd  fooled  twenty  years  back,  and  when  she 
come  walkin'  in  it  jest  took  him  by  surprise. 

'"Why,  Milly,'  says  he,  'is  this  you?' 

"And  he  held  out  his  hand,  and  she  walked  over  to 
the  bed  and  laid  her  hand  in  his.  Folks  that  was  there 
say  it  was  a  strange  sight  for  any  one  that  remembered 
what  them  two  used  to  be.  Her  so  gentle  and  sweet- 
lookin',  and  him  all  wore  out  with  bad  livin'  and  wasted 
to  a  shadder  of  what  he  used  to  be. 

131 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

"I've  seen  the  same  thing,  child,  over  and  over  again. 
Two  people'll  start  out  together,  and  after  a  while 
they'll  git  separated,  or,  maybe,  they'll  live  together  a 
lifetime,  and  when  they  git  to  the  end  o'  fifteen  or 
twenty  or  twenty-five  years,  one'll  be  jest  where  he  was 
when  they  set  out,  and  the  other'll  be  'way  up  and  'way 
on,  and  they're  jest  nothin'  but  strangers  after  all. 
That's  the  way  it  was  with  Milly  and  Dick.  They'd 
been  sweethearts,  and  there  was  the  child;  but  the 
father'd  gone  his  way  and  the  mother'd  gone  hers,  and 
now  there  was  somethin'  between  'em  like  that  'great 
gulf  the  Bible  tells  about.  Well,  they  said  Dick  looked 
up  at  Milly  like  a  hungry  man  looks  at  bread,  and  at 
last  he  says: 

"I'm  goin'  to  make  an  honest  woman  of  you, 
Milly.' 

"And  Milly  looked  him  in  the  eyes  and  said  as  gentle 
and  easy  as  if  she'd  been  talkin'  to  a  sick  child:  'I've 
always  been  an  honest  woman,  Dick.' 

"This  kind  o'  took  him  back  again,  but  he  says, 
right  earnest  and  pitiful,  'I  want  to  marry  you,  Milly; 
don't  refuse  me.  I  want  to  do  one  decent  thing  before 
I  die.  I've  come  all  the  way  from  California  just  for  this. 
Surely  you'll  feel  better  if  you  are  my  lawful  wife.' 

132 


MILLY    BAKER'S    BOY 

"And  they  said  Milly  thought  a  minute  and  then  she 
says:  'I  don't  believe  it  makes  any  difference  with  me, 
Dick.  I've  been  through  the  worst,  and  I'm  used  to 
it.  But  if  it'll  make  it  any  easier  for  you,  I'll  marry 
you.  And  then  there's  my  boy;  maybe  it  will  be  better 
for  him.' 

"Where's  the  boy?'  says  Dick;  'I  want  to  see  him.' 

"So  Milly  went  and  called  Richard  in.  And  as  soon 
as  Dick  saw  him  he  raised  up  on  his  elbow,  weak  as  he 
was,  and  hollered  out  so  you  could  hear  him  in  the 
next  room. 

"Why,'  says  he,  'it's  myself!  It's  myself!  Stand 
off  there  where  I  can  see  you,  boy!  Why,  you're  the 
man  I  ought  to  have  been  and  couldn't  be.  These 
lyin'  doctors,'  says  he,  'tell  me  that  I  haven't  got  a  day 
to  live,  but  I'm  goin'  to  live  another  lifetime  in 
you!' 

"And  then  he  fell  back,  gaspin'  for  breath,  and  young 
Richard  stood  there  in  the  middle  o'  the  floor  with  his 
arms  folded  and  his  face  lookin'  like  it  was  made  of 
stone. 

"As  soon  as  Dick  could  speak,  they  said  he  pulled 
Milly  down  and  whispered  something  to  her,  and  she 
went  over  to  the  chair  where  his  clothes  was  hangin'  and 

133 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

felt  in  the  pocket  of  the  vest  and  got  a  little  pearl 
ring  out.  They  said  she  shook  like  a  leaf  when  she  saw 
it.  And  Dick  says:  'I  took  it  away  from  you,  Milly, 
twenty  years  ago,  for  fear  you'd  use  it  for  evidence 
against  me  —  scoundrel  that  I  was;  and  now  I'm 
goin'  to  put  it  on  your  finger  again,  and  the  parson  shall 
marry  us  fair  and  square.  I've  got  the  license  here 
under  my  pillow.'  And  Milly  leaned  over  and  lifted 
him  and  propped  him  up  with  the  pillows,  and  the  young 
parson  said  the  ceremony  over  'em,  with  Jane  Ann  and 
the  old  Squire  for  witnesses. 

"As  soon  as  the  parson  got  through,  Dick  says: 
'Boy,  won't  you  shake  hands  with  your  father?  I 
wouldn't  ask  you  before.'  But  Richard  never  stirred. 
And  Milly  got  up  and  went  to  him  and  laid  her  hand 
on  his  arm  and  says:  'My  son,  come  and  speak  to 
your  father.'  And  he  walked  up  and  took  Dick's  pore 
wasted  hand  in  his  strong  one,  and  the  old  Squire  set 
there  and  sobbed  like  a  child.  Jane  Ann  said  he  held 
on  to  Richard's  hand  and  looked  at  him  for  a  long  time, 
and  then  he  reached  under  the  pillow  and  brought  out 
a  paper,  and  says  he:  'It's  my  will;  open  it  after  I'm 
gone.  I've  squandered  a  lot  o'  money  out  West,  but 
there's  a  plenty  left,  and  that  minin'  stock'll  make  you 

134 


MILLY    BAKER'S    BOY 

a  rich  man.  It's  all  yours  and  your  mother's.  I  wish 
it  was  more,'  says  he,  'for  you're  a  son  that  a  king'd  be 
proud  of.' 

"Them  was  about  the  last  words  he  said.  Dr. 
Pendleton  said  he  wouldn't  live  through  the  night,  and 
sure  enough  he  begun  to  sink  as  soon  as  the  young 
parson  left,  and  he  died  the  next  mornin'  about  day 
break.  Jane  Ann  said  jest  before  he  died  he  opened 
his  eyes  and  mumbled  somethin',  and  Milly  seemed  to 
know  what  he  wanted,  for  she  reached  over  and  put 
Richard's  hand  on  hers  and  Dick's,  and  he  breathed 
his  last  jest  that  way. 

"Milly  wouldn't  let  a  soul  touch  the  corpse,  but  her 
and  Richard.  She  was  a  mighty  good  hand  at  layin' 
out  the  dead,  and  them  two  washed  and  shrouded  the 
body  and  laid  it  in  the  coffin,  and  the  next  day  at  the 
funeral  Milly  walked  on  one  side  o'  the  old  Squire 
and  Richard  on  the  other,  and  the  old  man  leaned  on 
Richard  like  he'd  found  a  prop  for  his  last  days. 

"I  ain't  much  of  a  hand  to  believe  in  signs,  but  there 

was  one  thing  the  day  of  the  buryin'  that  I  shall  always 

ricollect.     It  had  been  rainin'  off  and  on  all  day,  —  a 

soft,  misty  sort  o'  rain  that's  good  for  growin'  things, 

—  but  while  they  were  fillin'  up  the  grave  and  smoothin' 

135 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

it  off,  the  sun  broke  out  over  in  the  west,  and  when  we 
turned  around  to  leave  the  grave  there  was  the  bright 
est,  prettiest  rainbow  you  ever  saw;  and  when  Milly  and 
Richard  got  into  the  old  Squire's  carriage  and  rode 
home  with  him,  that  rainbow  was  right  in  front  of  'em 
all  the  way  home.  It  didn't  mean  much  for  Milly  and 
the  Squire,  but  I  couldn't  help  thinkin'  it  was  a  promise 
o'  better  things  for  Richard,  and  maybe  a  hope  for  pore 
Dick. 

"Milly  didn't  live  long  after  this.  They  found  her 
dead  in  her  bed  one  mornin'.  The  doctor  said  it  was 
heart  disease;  but  it's  my  belief  that  she  jest  died  be 
cause  she  thought  she  could  do  Richard  a  better  turn 
by  dyin'  than  livin'.  She'd  lived  for  him  twenty  years 
and  seen  him  come  into  his  rights,  and  I  reckon  she 
thought  her  work  was  done.  Dyin'  for  people  is  a 
heap  easier'n  livin'  for  'em,  anyhow. 

"The  old  Squire  didn't  outlive  Milly  many  years, 
and  when  he  died  Richard  come  into  all  the  Elrod 
property.  You've  seen  the  Elrod  place,  ain't  you, 
child  ?  That  white  house  with  big  pillars  and  porches 
in  front  of  it.  It's  three  miles  further  on  the  pike,  and 
folks'll  drive  out  there  jest  to  look  at  it.  I've  heard 
'em  call  it  a  'colonial  mansion,'  or  some  such  name  as 

136 


MILLY    BAKER'S    BOY 

that.  It  was  all  run  down  when  Richard  come  into 
possession  of  it,  but  now  it's  one  o'  the  finest  places  in 
the  whole  state.  That's  the  way  it  is  with  families: 
one  generation'll  tear  down  and  another  generational 
build  up.  Richard's  buildin'  up  all  that  his  father 
tore  down,  and  I'm  in  hopes  his  work'll  last  for  many 
a  day." 

Aunt  Jane's  voice  ceased,  and  there  was  a  long 
silence.  The  full  harvest  of  the  story-telling  was  over; 
but  sometimes  there  was  an  aftermath  to  Aunt  Jane's 
tale,  and  for  this  I  waited.  I  looked  at  the  field  oppo 
site  where  the  long,  verdant  rows  gave  promise  of  the 
autumn  reaping,  and  my  thoughts  were  busy  tracing 
backward  every  link  in  the  chain  of  circumstance  that 
stretched  between  Milly  Baker's  boy  of  forty  years  ago 
and  the  handsome,  prosperous  man  I  had  seen  that 
morning.  Ah,  a  goodly  tale  and  a  goodly  ending! 
Aunt  Jane  spoke  at  last,  and  her  words  were  an  echo 
of  my  thought. 

"There's  lots  of  satisfactory  things  in  this  world, 
child,"  she  said,  beaming  at  me  over  her  spectacles 
with  the  smile  of  the  optimist  who  is  born,  not  made. 
"There's  a  satisfaction  in  roundin'  off  the  toe  of  a 
stockin',  like  I'm  doin'  now,  and  knowin'  that  your 

L'57 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

work's  goin'  to  keep  somebody's  feet  warm  next  winter. 
There's  a  satisfaction  in  bakin'  a  nice,  light  batch  o' 
bread  for  the  children  to  eat  up.  There's  a  satisfac 
tion  in  settin'  on  the  porch  in  the  cool  o'  the  evenin' 
and  thinkin'  o'  the  good  day's  work  behind  you,  and 
another  good  day  that's  comin'  to-morrow.  This  world 
ain't  a  vale  o'  tears  unless  you  make  it  so  on  purpose. 
But  of  all  the  satisfactions  I  ever  experienced,  the  most 
satisfyin'  is  to  see  people  git  their  just  deserts  right  here 
in  this  world.  I  don't  blame  David  for  bein'  out  o' 
patience  when  he  saw  the  wicked  flourishin'  like  a  green 
bay  tree. 

"I  never  was  any  hand  for  puttin'  things  off,  whether 
it's  work  or  punishment;  and  I've  never  got  my  own 
consent  to  this  way  o'  skeerin'  people  with  a  hell  and 
wheedlin'  'em  writh  a  heaven  way  off  yonder  in  the  next 
world.  I  ain't  as  old  as  Methuselah,  but  I've  lived 
long  enough  to  find  out  a  few  things;  and  one  of  'em  is 
that  if  people  don't  die  before  their  time,  they'll  git 
their  heaven  and  their  hell  right  here  in  this  world. 
And  whenever  I  feel  like  doubtin'  the  justice  o'  the 
Lord,  I  think  o'  Milly  Baker's  boy,  and  how  he  got 
everything  that  belonged  to  him,  and  he  didn't  have  to 
die  and  go  to  heaven  to  git  it  either." 

138 


MILLY    BAKER'S    BOY 

"'Though  the  mills  of  God  grind  slowly,  yet  they  grind 

exceeding  small; 

Though  with  patience  He  stands  waiting,  with  exact 
ness  grinds  He  all.' " 

I  quoted  the  lines  musingly,  watching  meanwhile 
their  effect  on  Aunt  Jane.  Her  eyes  sparkled  as  her 
quick  brain  took  in  the  meaning  of  the  poet's  words. 

"That's  it!"  she  exclaimed,—  "that's  it!  I  don't 
mind  waitin'  myself  and  seein'  other  folks  wait,  too, 
a  reasonable  time,  but  I  do  like  to  see  everybody, 
sooner  or  later,  git  the  grist  that  rightly  belongs  to  'em." 


- 

•t    \, or, <£<£'»•'     t=S    =3   =±3    mM£tt.*r3$f\*v»4-,.. 


130 


VI 
THE  BAPTIZING  AT  KITTLE  CREEK 


141 


1   I       I 
VI 

THE    BAPTIZING    AT    KITTLE    CHEEK 

"  f  I  ^HERE'S  a  heap  o'  reasons  for  folks  inarryiri'," 
J-  said  Aunt  Jane,  reflectively.  "Some  marries  for 
love,  some  for  money,  some  for  a  home;  some  marries 
jest  to  spite  somebody  else,  and  some,  it  looks  like,  mar 
ries  for  notliin'  on  earth  hut  to  have  somebody  always 
around  to  quarrel  with  about  religion.  That's  the  way 

143 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

it  was  with  Marthy  and  Amos  Matthews.  I  don't  reckon 
you  ever  heard  o'  Marthy  and  Amos,  did  you,  child  ? 
It's  been  many  a  year  since  I  thought  of  'em  myself. 
But  last  Sunday  evenin'  I  was  over  at  Elnora  Simpson's, 
and  old  Uncle  Sam  Simpson  was  there  visitin'.  Uncle 
Sam  used  to  live  in  the  neighborhood  o'  Goshen,  but 
he  moved  up  to  Edmonson  County  way  back  yonder, 
I  can't  tell  when,  and  every  now  and  then  he  comes 
back  to  see  his  grandchildren.  He's  gittin'  well  on 
towards  ninety,  and  I'm  thinkin'  this  is  about  the  last 
trip  the  old  man'll  make  till  he  goes  on  his  long  journey. 
I  was  mighty  glad  to  see  him,  and  me  and  him  set  and 
talked  about  old  times  till  the  sun  went  down.  What 
he  didn't  remember  I  did,  and  what  I  didn't  remember 
he  did;  and  when  we  got  through  talkin',  Elnora  — 
that's  his  grandson's  wife  —  says,  'Well,  Uncle  Sam, 
if  I  could  jest  take  down  everything  you  and  Aunt 
Jane  said  to-day,  I'd  have  a  pretty  good  history  of 
everybody  that  ever  lived  in  this  county.' 

"Uncle  Sam  was  the  one  that  started  the  talk  about 
Marthy  and  Amos.  He'd  been  leanin'on  his  cane  lookin' 
out  o'  the  door  at  Elnora's  twins  playin'  on  the  grass, 
and  all  at  once  he  says,  says  he, '  Jane,  do  you  ricollect 
the  time  they  had  the  big  babtizin'  down  at  Kittle 

144 


THE    BAPTIZING    AT    KITTLE    CREEK 

Creek?'  And  he  got  to  laugliin',  and  I  got  to  laughin', 
and  we  set  there  and  cackled  like  a  pair  o'  old  fools, 
and  nobody  but  us  two  seein'  anything  funny  about  it." 

Aunt  Jane's  ready  laugh  began  again  at  the  mere 
remembrance  of  her  former  mirth.  I  kept  discreetly 
silent,  fearing  to  break  the  flow  of  reminiscence  by 
some  ill-timed  question. 

"Nobody  ever  could  see,"  she  continued,  "how  it 
was  that  Amos  Matthews  and  Marthy  Crawford  ever 
come  to  marry,  unless  it  was  jest  as  I  said,  to  have 
somebody  always  handy  to  quarrel  with  about  their 
religion;  and  I  used  to  think  sometimes  that  Marthy 
and  Amos  got  more  pleasure  that  way  than  most  folks 
git  out  o'  prayin'  and  singin'  and  listenin'  to  preachin'. 
Amos  was  the  strictest  sort  of  a  Presbyterian,  and 
Marthy  was  a  *Babtist,  and  to  hear  them  two  jawin' 
and  arguin'  and  bringin'  up  Scripture  texts  about 
predestination  and  infant  babtism  and  close  communion 
and  immersion  was  enough  to  make  a  person  wish 
there  wasn't  such  a  thing  as  churches  and  doctrines. 
Brother  Rice  asked  Sam  Amos  once  if  Marthy  and 
Amos  Matthews  was  Christians.  Brother  Rice  had 
come  to  help  Parson  Page  carry  on  a  meetin',  and  he 
was  try  in'  to  find  out  who  was  the  sinners  and  who 

145 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

was  the  Christians.  And  Sam  says,  'No;  my  Lord! 
It  takes  all  o'  Marthy's  time  to  be  a  Babtist  and  all  o' 
Amos'  to  be  a  Presbyterian.  They  ain't  got  time  to 
be  Christians.' 

"Some  folks  wondered  how  they  ever  got  time  to  do 
any  courtin',  they  was  so  busy  wranglin'  over  babtism 
and  election.  And  after  Marthy  had  her  weddin' 
clothes  all  made  they  come  to  a  dead  stop.  Amos  said 
he  wouldn't  feel  like  they  was  rightly  married  if  they 
didn't  have  a  Presbyterian  minister  to  marry  'em,  and 
Marthy  said  it  wouldn't  be  marryin'  to  her  if  they 
didn't  have  a  Babtist.  I  was  over  at  Hannah  Craw 
ford's  one  day,  and  she  says,  says  she,  'Jane,  I've  been 
savin'  up  my  eggs  and  butter  for  a  month  to  make 
Marthy's  weddin'  cake,  and  if  her  and  Amos  don't 
come  to  an  understandin'  soon,  it'll  all  be  a  dead  loss.' 
And  Marthy  says,  'Well,  mother,  I  may  not  have  any 
cake  at  my  weddin',  and  I  may  not  have  any  weddin', 
but  one  thing  is  certain:  I'm  not  goin'  to  give  up  my 
principles.' 

"And  Hannah  sort  o'  groaned  —  she  hadn't  had  any 
easy  time  writh  Miles  Crawford  —  and  says  she,  '  You 
pore  foolish  child!  Principles  ain't  the  only  thing  a 
woman  has  to  give  up  when  she  gits  married.' 

146 


THE    BAPTIZING   AT    KITTLE    CREEK 

"  I  don't  know  whether  they  ever  would  'a'  come  to 
an  agreement  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Brother  Morris. 
He  was  the  Prcsidin'  Elder  from  town,  and  a  powerful 
hand  for  jokin'  with  folks.  He  happened  to  meet 
Amos  one  day  about  this  time,  and  says  he,  'Amos,  I 
hear  you  and  Miss  Marthy  can't  decide  betwixt  Brother 
Page  and  Brother  Cyardner.  It'd  be  a  pity,'  says  he, 
'to  have  a  good  match  sp'iled  for  such  a  little  matter, 
and  s'pose  you  compromise  and  have  me  to  marry  you.' 

"And  Amos  says,  'I  don't  know  but  what  that's  the 
best  thing  that  could  be  done.  I'll  see  Marthy  and  let 
you  know.'  And,  bless  your  life,  they  was  married  a 
week  from  that  day.  I  went  over  and  helped  Hannah 
with  the  cake,  and  Brother  Morris  said  as  pretty  a 
ceremony  over  'em  as  any  Presbyterian  or  Babtist 
could  'a'  said. 

"Well,  the  next  Sunday  everybody  was  on  the  look 
out  to  see  which  church  the  bride  and  groom 'd  go  to. 

O  O 

Bush  Elrod  bet  a  dollar  that  Marthy 'd  have  her  way, 
and  Sam  Amos  bet  a  dollar  that  they'd  be  at  the  Pres 
byterian  church.  Sam  won  the  bet,  and  we  was  all 
right  glad  that  Marthy 'd  had  the  grace  to  give  up  that 
one  time,  anyhow.  Amos  was  powerful  pleased  havin' 
Marthy  with  him,  and  they  sung  out  of  the  same  hymn- 

147 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

book  and  looked  real  happy.  It  looked  like  they  was 
startin'  out  right,  and  I  thought  to  myself,  'Well,  here's 
a  good  beginnin',  anyhow.'  But  it  happened  to  be 
communion  Sunday,  and  of  all  the  unlucky  things  that 
could  'a'  happened  for  Marthy  and  Amos,  that  was 
about  the  unluckiest.  I  said  then  that  if  Parson  Page 
had  been  a  woman,  he'd  'a'  postponed  that  communion. 
But  a  man  couldn't  be  expected  to  have  much  sense 
about  such  matters,  so  he  goes  ahead  and  gives  out  the 
hymn, 

* 'Twas  on  that  dark  and  dreadful  day;' 

and  everybody  in  church  was  lookin'  at  Amos  and 
Marthy  and  watchin'  to  see  what  she  was  goin'  to  do. 
While  they  was  singin'  the  hymn  the  church-members 
got  up  and  went  forward  to  the  front  seats,  and  Amos 
went  with  'em.  That  left  Marthy  all  alone  in  the  pew, 
and  I  couldn't  help  feelin'  sorry  for  her.  She  tried  to 
look  unconcerned,  but  anybody  could  see  she  felt  sort 
o'  forsaken  and  left  out,  and  folks  all  lookin',  and  some 
of  'em  whisperin'  and  nudgin'  each  other.  I  knew  jest 
exactly  how  Marthy  felt.  Abram  said  to  me  when  we 
was  on  the  way  home  that  day,  'Jane,  if  I'd  'a'  been  in 
Amos'  place,  I  believe  I'd  'a'  set  still  with  Marthy. 

148 


THE    BAPTIZING   AT    KITTLE    CREEK 

Marthy'd  conic  with  him  and  it  looks  like  he  ought  to 
'a'  stayed  with  her.'  I  reckon,  though,  that  Amos 
thought  he  was  doin'  right,  and  maybe  it's  foolish  in 
women  to  care  about  things  like  that.  Sam  Amos  used 
to  say  that  nobody  but  God  Almighty,  that  made  her, 
ever  could  tell  what  a  woman  wanted  and  what  she 
didn't  wrant;  and  I've  thought  many  a  time  that  since 
He  made  women,  it's  a  pity  He  couldn't  'a'  made  men 
with  a  better  understandin'  o'  women's  ways. 

"Maybe  if  Amos'd  set  still  that  day,  things  would  'a' 
been  different  with  him  and  Marthy  all  their  lives,  and 
then  again,  maybe  it  didn't  make  any  difference.  It's 
hard  to  tell  jest  what  makes  things  go  wrong  in  this 
world  and  what  makes  'cm  go  right.  It's  a  mighty 
little  thing  for  a  man  to  git  up  and  leave  his  wife  settin' 
alone  in  a  pew7  for  a  few  minutes,  but  then  there's 
mighty  few  things  in  this  life  that  ain't  little,  till  you  git 
to  follerin'  'em  up  and  seein'  what  they  come  to." 

I  thought  of  Pippa's  song: 

"Say  not  a  small  event!    Why  'small '  ? 
Costs  it  more  pain  that  this,  ye  call 
A  great  event,  should  come  to  puss, 
Than  that  ?     Untwine  me  from  the  mass 
Of  deeds  which  make  up  life,  one  deed 
Power  shall  fall  short  in  or  exceed!" 

149 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

And  Aunt  Jane  went  serenely  on: 

"Anyhow,  it  wasn't  long  till  Amos  was  goin'  to  his 
church  and  Marthy  to  hers,  and  they  kept  that  up  the 
rest  of  their  lives.  Still,  they  might  'a'  got  along  well 
enough  this  way,  for  married  folks  don't  have  to  think 
alike  about  everything,  but  they  was  eternally  arguin' 
about  their  church  doctrines.  If  Amos  grumbled  about 
the  weather,  Marthy 'd  say,  'Ain't  everything  predes 
tined  ?  Warn't  this  drought  app'intcd  before  the  foun 
dation  of  the  world  ?  \Yhat's  the  sense  in  grumblin' 
over  the  decrees  of  God  ?'  And  it  got  so  that  if  Amos 
wanted  to  grumble  over  anything,  he  had  to  git  away 
from  home  first,  and  that  must  'a'  been  mighty  wearin' 
on  him;  for,  as  a  rule,  a  man  never  does  any  grumblin' 
except  at  home;  but  pore  Amos  didn't  have  that  privi 
lege.  Sam  Amos  used  to  say  —  Sam  wasn't  a  church- 
member  himself  —  that  there  was  some  advantages 
about  bein'  a  Babtist  after  all;  you  did  have  to  go  under 
the  water,  but  then  you  had  the  right  to  grumble.  But 
if  a  man  believed  that  everything  was  predestined  before 
the  foundations  of  the  world,  there  wasn't  any  sense  or 
reason  in  findin'  fault  with  anything  that  happened. 
And  he  believed  that  he'd  ruther  jine  the  Babtist  church 
than  the  Presbyterian,  for  he  didn't  see  how  he  could 

150 


THE    BAPTIZING   AT   KITTLE    CREEK 

carry  on  his  farm  without  complainin'  about  the  weather 
and  the  crops  and  things  in  general. 

"If  Marthv  and  Amos'd  been  divided  on  anything 

«/  O 

but  their  churches,  the  children  nii"'ht  V  brought  'em 

O  o 

together;  but  every  time  a  child  was  born  matters  got 
worse.  Amos,  of  course,  wanted  'em  all  babtized  in 
infancy,  and  Marthv  wanted  'em  immersed  when  they 
j'ined  the  church,  and  so  it  went.  Amos  had  his  way 
about  the  first  one,  and  I  never  shall  forgit  the  day  it  was 
born.  I  went  over  to  help  wait  on  Marthv  and  the 
baby,  and  as  soon  as  I  got  the  little  thing  dressed,  we 
called  Amos  in  to  see  it.  Now,  Amos  always  took  his 
religion  mighty  hard.  It  didn't  seem  to  bring  him  any 
comfort  or  peace  o'  mind.  I've  heard  people,  say  they 
didn't  see  how  Presbyterians  ever  could  be  happy;  but 
la,  child,  it's  jest  as  easy  to  be  happy  in  one  church  as 
in  another.  It  all  depends  on  what  doctrines  you  think 
the  most  about.  Xow  you  take  election  and  justifica 
tion  and  sanctification,  and  you  can  git  plenty  o'  com 
fort  out  o'  them.  But  Amos  never  seemed  to  think  of 
anything  but  reprobation  and  eternal  damnation. 
Them  doctrines  jest  seemed  to  weigh  on  him  night  and 
dav.  He  used  to  say  many  a  time  that  he  didn't  know 
whether  he  had  made  liis  callin'  and  election  sure  or 

151 


AUNT   JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

not,  and  I  don't  believe  he  thought  that  anybody  else 
had  made  theirs  sure,  either.  Abram  used  to  say  that 
Amos  looked  like  he  was  carryin'  the  sins  o'  the  world 
on  his  shoulders. 

"That  day  the  baby  was  born  I  thought  to  myself, 
'Well,  here's  somethin'  that'll  make  Amos  forgit  about 
his  callin'  and  election  for  once, anyhow;'  and  I  wrapped 
the  little  feller  up  in  his  blanket  and  held  him  to  the 
light,  so  his  father  could  see  him;  and  Amos  looked  at 
him  like  he  was  skeered,  for  a  minute,  and  then  he 
says,  'O  Lord!  I  hope  it  ain't  a  reprobate.' 

"Now  jest  think  of  a  man  lookin'  down  into  a  little 
new-born  baby's  face  and  talkin'  about  reprobates! 

"Marthy  heard  what  he  said,  and  says  she,  'Amos, 
are  you  goin'  to  have  him  babtized  in  infancy?' 
"Why,  yes,'  says  Amos,  'of  course  I  am.' 

"And  Marthy  says,  'Well,  hadn't  you  better  wait 
until  you  find  out  whether  he's  a  reprobate  or  not  ?  If 
he's  a  reprobate,  babtizin'  ain't  goin'  to  do  him  any 
good,  and  if  he's  elected  he  don't  need  to  be  babtized.' 

"And  I  says,  'For  goodness'  sake,  Marthy,  you  and 
Amos  let  the  doctrines  alone,  or  you'll  throw  yourself 
into  a  fever.'  And  I  pushed  a  rockin'-chair  up  by  the 
bed  and  I  says,  'Here,  Amos,  you  set  here  by  your  wife, 

152 


THE    BAPTIZING    AT    KITTLE    CREEK 

and  both  of  you  thank  the  Lord  for  givin'  you  such  a 
fine  child;'  and  I  laid  the  baby  in  Amos'  arms,  and 
went  out  in  the  gyarden  to  look  around  and  git  some 
fresh  air.  I  gethered  a  bunch  o'  honeysuckles  to  put 
on  Marthy's  table,  and  when  I  got  back,  Marthy  and 
the  baby  was  both  asleep,  and  Amos  looked  as  if  he 
was  beginnin'  to  have  some  little  hopes  of  the  child's 
salvation. 

"Marthy  named  him  John;  and  Sam  Amos  said  he 
reckoned  it  was  for  John  the  Babtist.  But  it  wasn't; 
it  was  for  Marthy's  twin  brother  that  died  when  he  \vas 
jest  three  months  old.  Twins  run  in  the  Crawford 
family.  Amos  had  him  babtized  in  infancy  jest  like 
he  said  he  wrould,  and  such  a  hollerin'  and  squallin' 
never  was  heard  in  Goshen  church.  The  next  day 
Sally  Ann  says  to  me,  says  she,  'That  child  must  'a' 
been  a  Babtist,  Jane;  for  he  didn't  appear  to  favor 
infant  babtism.' 

"Well,  Marthy  had  her  say-so  about  the  next  child  — 
that  one  was  a  boy,  too,  and  they  named  him  Amos  for 
his  father  —  and  young  Amos  wasn't  babtized  in  in- 
fancv;  he  was  'laid  aside  for  immersion,'  as  Sam  Amos 
said.  Then  it  was  Amos'  time  to  have  his  way,  and  so 
they  went  on  till  young  Amos  was  about  fifteen  years 

153 


AUNT   JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

old  and  Marthy  got  him  converted  and  ready  to  be 
immersed.  The  Babtists  had  a  big  meetin'  that  spring, 
and  there  was  a  dozen  or  more  converts  to  be  babtized 
when  it  was  over.  We'd  been  havin'  mighty  pleasant 
weather  that  March;  I  ricollect  me  and  Abram  planted 
our  potatoes  the  first  week  in  March,  and  I  would  put 
in  some  peas.  Abram  said  it  was  too  early,  and  sure 
enough  the  frost  got  'em  W-ien  they  was  about  two 
inches  high.  It  turned  off  real  cold  about  the  last  o' 
March;  and  when  the  day  for  the  babtizin'  come,  there 
was  a  pretty  keen  east  wind,  and  Kittle  Creek  was 
mighty  high  and  muddy,  owin'  to  the  rains  they'd  had 
further  up.  There  was  some  talk  o'  puttin'  off  the 
babtizin'  till  better  weather,  but  Brother  Gyardner,  he 
says:  'The  colder  the  water,  the  warmer  your  faith, 
brethren;  Christ  never  put  off  any  babtizin'  on  account 
of  the  weather.' 

"  Sam  Amos  asked  him  if  he  didn't  reckon  there  was 
some  difference  between  the  climate  o'  Kentucky  and 
the  climate  o'  Palestine.  Sam  was  always  a  great  hand 
to  joke  with  the  preachers.  But  the  way  things  went 
that  day  the  weather  didn't  make  much  difference  any 
how  to  young  Sam. 

"The  whole  neighborhood  turned  out  Sunday  evenin' 
154 


THE    BAPTIZING    AT    KITTLE    CREEK 

and  went  over  to  Kittle  Creek  to  see  the  big  babtizin'. 
Marthy  and  Amos  and  all  the  children  was  there,  and 
Marthv  looked  like  she'd  had  a  bi«;  streak  o'  a-ood  luck. 

*/  o  O 

Sam  Amos  says  to  me,  'Well,  Aunt  Jane,  Marthy 's 
waited  a  long  time,  but  she'll  have  her  innin's  now.' 

"Bush  Elrod  was  the  first  one  to  go  under  the  water; 
and  when  two  or  three  more  had  been  babtized,  it  was 
young  Amos'  time.  I  saw  Marthy  pushin'  him  for 
ward  and  beckonin'  to  Brother  Gyardner  like  she 
couldn't  wait  any  longer. 

"Nobody  never  did  know  exactly  how  it  happened. 
Some  folks  said  that  young  Amos  wasn't  overly  anxious 
to  go  under  the  water  that  cold  day,  and  he  kind  o' 
slipped  behind  his  father  when  he  saw  Brother  Gyard 
ner  comin'  towards  him;  and  some  went  so  fur  as  to 
say  that  Brother  Gyardner  was  in  the  habit  o'  takin' 
a  little  spirits  after  a  babtizin'  to  keep  from  takin'  cold, 
and  that  time  he'd  taken  it  beforehand,  and  didn't 
know  exactly  what  he  was  about.  Anyhow,  the  first 
thing  we  knew  Brother  Gyardner  had  hold  o'  Amos 
himself,  leadin'  him  towards  the  water.  Amos  was  a 
timid  sort  o'  man,  easy  flustered,  and  it  looked  like  he 
lost  his  wits  and  his  tongue  too.  He  was  kind  o' 
pullin'  back  and  lookin'  round  in  a  skeercd  way,  and 

155 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

Brother  Gyardner  he  hollered  out,  '-Come  right  along, 
brother!  I  know  jest  how  it  is  myself;  the  spirit  is 
willin',  but  the  flesh  is  weak.'  The  Babtists  was 
shoutin'  'Glory  Hallelujah!'  and  Uncle  Jim  Matthews 
begun  to  sing,  'On  Jordan's  stormy  banks  I  stand,' 
and  pretty  near  everybody  j'ined  in  till  you  couldn't 
hear  your  ears.  Tho  rest  of  us  was  about  as  flustered 
as  Amos.  We  knew  in  reason  that  Brother  Gyardner 
was  makin'  a  big  mistake,  but  we  jest  stood  there  and 
let  things  go  on,  and  no  tellin'  what  might  'a'  hap 
pened  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Sam  Amos.  Sam  was  a 
cool-headed  man,  and  nothin'  ever  flustered  him.  As 
soon  as  he  saw  how  things  was  goin',  he  set  down  on 
the  bank  and  pulled  off  his  boots;  and  jest  as  Brother 
Gyardner  got  into  the  middle  o'  the  cr  ek,  here  come 
Sam  wadin'  up  behind  'em,  and  grabbed  Amos  by  the 
shoulder  and  hollered  out,  'You  got  the  wrong  man, 
parson!  Here,  Amos,  take  hold  o'  me.'  And  he  give 
Amos  a  jerk  that  nearly  made  Brother  Gyardner  lose 
his  footin',  and  him  and  Amos  waded  up  to  the  shore 
and  left  Brother  Gyardner  standin'  there  in  the  middle 
o'  the  creek  lookin'  like  he'd  lost  his  job. 

"Well,  that  put  a  stop  to  the  singin'  and  the  shoutin', 
and  the  way  folks  laughed  was  scandalous.     They  had 

15G 


THE    BAPTIZING    AT    KITTLE    CREEK 

to  walk  Amos  home  in  a  hurry  to  git  his  wet  clothes  off, 
and  Uncle  Jim  Matthews  and  Old  Man  Bob  Crawford 
went  with  him  to  rub  him  down.  Amos  was  subject 
to  bronchitis,  anyhow.  Marthy  went  on  ahead  of  'em 
in  the  wagon  to  have  hot  water  and  blankets  ready. 
I'll  give  Marthy  th  t  credit;  she  appeared  to  forgit  all 
about  the  babtizin'  when  Amos  come  up  so  wet  and 
shiverin'.  Sam  couldn't  git  his  boots  on  over  his  wet 
socks,  and  as  he'd  walked  over  to  the  creek,  Silas  Petty 
had  to  take  him  home  in  his  spring  wagon.  Brother 
Gyardner  all  this  time  was  lookin'  round  for  young 
Amos,  but  he  wasn't  to  be  found  high  nor  low,  and 
that  set  folks  to  laughin'  again,  and  so  many  havin'  to 
leave,  the  babtizin'  was  clean  broke  up.  Milly  come 
up  jest  as  Sam  was  gittin'  into  Old  Man  Bob's  wagon, 
and  says  she,  'Well,  Sam,  you've  ruined  your  Sunday 
pants  this  time.'  And  Sam  says,  'Pants  nothin'.  The 
rest  o'  you  all  can  save  your  Sunday  pants  if  you  want 
to,  but  this  here's  a  free  country,  and  I  ain't  goin'  to 
stand  by  and  see  a  man  babtized  against  his  will  while 
I'm  able  to  save  him.'  And  if  Sam'd  saved  Amos' 
life,  instead  o'  jest  savin'  him  from  babtism,  Amos 
couldn't  'a'  been  gratefuler.  When  Sam  broke  his 
arm  the  follerin'  summer,  Amos  went  over  and  set  up 

157 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

with  him  at  night,  and  lot  his  own  wheat  stand  while 
he  harvested  Sam's. 

"Well,  the  next  time  the  'Sociation  met,  the  Bab- 
tists  had  somethin'  new  to  talk  about.  Old  Brother 
Gyardner  got  up,  and  says  he,  'Brethren,  there's  a 
question  that's  been  botherin'  me  for  some  time,  and 
I'd  like  to  hear  it  diseussed  and  git  it  settled,  if  possible;' 
and  says  he,  'If  a  man  should  be  babtized  accidentally, 
and  against  his  will,  would  he  be  a  Babtist  ?  or  would 
he  not  ?'  And  they  begun  to  argue  it,  and  they  had  it  up 
and  down,  and  some  was  of  one  opinion  and  some  of 
another.  Brother  Gyardner  said  he  was  inclined  to 
think  that  babtism  made  a  man  a  Babtist,  but  old 
Brother  Bascom  said  if  a  man  wasn't  a  Babtist  in  his 
heart,  all  the  water  in  the  sea  wouldn't  make  him  one. 
And  Brother  Gyardner  said  that  was  knookin'  the  props 
clean  from  under  the  Babtist  faith.  'For,'  says  he,  'if 
bein'  a  Babtist  in  the  heart  makes  a  man  a  Babtist, 
then  babtism  ain't  necessary  to  salvation,  and  if  babtism 
ain't  necessary,  what  becomes  o'  the  Babtist  church?' 

"Somebody  told  Amos  about  the  dispute  they  was 
havin'  over  his  case,  and  Amos  says,  'If  them  fool 
Babtists  want  that  question  settled,  let  'em  come  to  me.' 
Says  he,  'My  father  and  mother  was  Presbyterians, 

158 


THE    BAPTIZING    AT    KITTLE    CREEK 

and  my  grandfather  and  grandmother  and  great-grand 
father  and  great-grandmother  on  both  sides;  I  was 
sprinkled  in  infancy,  and  I  j'ined  the  Presbyterian  church 
as  soon  as  I  come  to  the  age  of  accountability,  and  if 
you  was  to  carry  me  over  to  Jerusalem  and  babtize  me 
in  the  river  Jordan  itself,  I'd  still  be  a  Presbyterian.'" 

Here  Aunt  Jane  paused  to  laugh  again.  "There's 
some  things,  child,"  she  said,  as  she  wiped  her  glasses, 
"that  people '11  laugh  over  and  then  forgit;  and  there's 
some  things  they  never  git  over  laughin'  about.  The 
Kittle  Creek  babtizin'  was  one  o'  that  kind.  Old  Man 
Bob  Crawford  used  to  say  he  wouldn't  'a'  took  five 
hundred  dollars  for  that  babtizin'.  Old  Man  Bob  was 
the  biggest  laugher  in  the  country;  you  could  hear  him 
for  pretty  near  half  a  mile  when  he  got  in  a  laughin' 
way;  and  he  used  to  say  that  whenever  he  felt  like  havin' 
a  good  laugh,  all  he  had  to  do  was  to  think  of  Amos  and 
how  he  looked  with  Brother  Gyardner  leadin'  him  into 
the  water,  and  the  Babtists  a-singin'  over  him.  Bush 
Elrod  was  another  one  that  never  got  over  it.  Every 
time  he'd  see  Amos  he'd  begin  to  sing,  'On  Jordan's 
stormy  banks  I  stand,'  and  Amos  couldn't  git  out  o'  the 
way  quick  enough. 

"Well,  that's  what  made  me  and    old    Uncle    Sam 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

Simpson  laugh  so  last  Sunday.  I  don't  reckon  there's 
anything  funny  in  it  to  folks  that  never  seen  it ;  but  when 
old  people  git  together  and  call  up  old  times,  they  can 
see  jest  how  folks  looked  and  acted,  and  it's  like  livin' 
it  all  over  again." 

"I  don't  believe  you  can  see  it  any  plainer  than  I  do, 
Aunt  Jane,"  I  hastened  to  assure  her.  "It  is  all  as 
clear  to  me  as  any  picture  I  ever  saw.  It  was  in  March, 
you  say,  and  the  wind  was  cool,  but  the  sun  was  warm; 
and  if  you  sat  in  a  sheltered  place  you  might  almost 
think  it  was  the  last  of  April." 

"That's  so,  child.  I  remember  me  and  Abram  set 
under  the  bank  on  a  rock  that  kind  o'  cut  off  the  north 
wind,  and  it  \vas  real  pleasant." 

"Then  there  must  have  been  a  purple  haze  on  the 
hills;  and,  while  the  trees  were  still  bare,  there  was  a  look 
about  them  as  if  the  coming  leaves  were  casting  their 
shadows  before.  There  were  heaps  of  brown  leaves 
from  last  year's  autumn  in  the  fence  corners,  and  as  you 
and  Uncle  Abram  walked  home,  you  looked  under  them 
to  see  if  the  violets  were  coming  up,  and  found  some 
tiny  wood  ferns." 

Aunt  Jane  dropped  her  knitting  and  leaned  back  in 
the  high  old-fashioned  chair. 

160 


THE    BAPTIZING    AT    KITTLE    CREEK 

"Why,  child,"  she  said  in  an  awe-struck  tone,  "are 
you  a  fortune-teller?" 

"Not  at  all,  Aunt  Jane,"  I  said,  laughing  at  the  dear 
old  lady's  consternation.  "I  am  only  a  good  guesser; 
and  I  wanted  you  to  know  that  I  not  only  see  the  things 
that  you  see  and  tell  me,  hut  some  of  the  things  that  you 
see  and  don't  tell  me.  Did  Marthy  ever  get  young 
Amos  baptized?"  I  asked. 

"La,  yes,"  laughed  Aunt  Jane.  "They  finished 
up  the  babtizin'  two  weeks  after  that.  It  was  a  nice, 
pleasant  day,  and  young  Amos  went  under  the  water 
all  right;  but  mighty  little  good  it  did  him  after  all. 
For  as  soon  as  he  come  of  age,  he  married  Matildy 
Harris  (Matildy  was  a  Methodist),  and  he  got  to  goin' 
to  church  with  his  wife,  and  that  was  the  last  of  his 
Babtist  raisin'." 

Then  we  both  were  silent  for  a  while,  and  I  watched 
the  gathering  thunder-clouds  in  the  west.  A  low 
rumble  of  thunder  broke  the  stillness  of  the  August 
afternoon.  Aunt  Jane  looked  up  apprehensively. 

"There's  goin'  to  be  a  storm  betwixt  now  and  sun 
down,"  she  said,  "but  I  reckon  them  young  turkeys '11 
be  safe  under  their  mother's  wings  by  that  time." 

"Don't  you  think  a  wife  ought  to  join  her  husband's 
161 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

church,  Aunt  Jane?"  I  asked  with  idle  irrelevance  to 
her  remark. 

"Sometimes  she  ought  and  sometimes  she  oughtn't," 
replied  Aunt  Jane  oracularly.  "There  ain't  any  rule 
about  it.  Everybody's  got  to  be  their  own  judge  about 
such  matters.  If  I'd  'a'  been  in  Marthy's  place,  I 
wouldn't  'a'  j'ined  Amos'  church,  and  if  I'd  been  in 
Amos'  place  I  wouldn't  'a'  j'ined  Marthy's  church. 
So  there  it  is." 

"But  didn't  you  join  Uncle  Abram's  church?"  I 
asked,  in  a  laudable  endeavor  to  get  at  the  root  of 
the  matter. 

"Yes,  I  did,"  said  Aunt  Jane  stoutly;  "but  that's 
a  mighty  different  thing.  Of  course,  I  went  with 
Abram,  and  if  I  had  it  to  do  over  again,  I'd  do  it.  You 
see  the  way  of  it  was  this :  my  folks  was  Campbellites, 
or  Christians  they'd  ruther  be  called.  It's  curious  how 
they  don't  like  to  be  called  Campbellites.  Methodists 
don't  mind  bein'  called  Wesleyans,  and  Presbyterians 
don't  git  mad  if  you  call  'em  Calvinists,  and  I  reckon 
Alexander  Campbell  was  jest  as  good  a  man  as  Wesley 
and  a  sight  better'n  Calvin,  but  you  can't  make  a 
Campbellite  madder  than  to  call  him  a  Campbellite. 
However,  as  I  was  sayin',  Alexander  Campbell  himself 

162 


THE    BAPTIZING    AT    KITTLE    CREEK 

babtized  my  father  and  mother  out  here  in  Drake's 
Creek,  and  I  was  brought  up  to  think  that  my  church 
was  the  Christian  church,  sure  enough.  But  when  me 
and  Abram  married,  neither  one  of  us  was  thinkin'  much 
about  churches.  I  used  to  tell  Marthy  that  if  a  man'd 
come  talkin'  church  to  me,  when  he  ought  to  been 
courtin'  me,  I'd  'a'  told  him  to  go  on  and  marry  a 
hymn-book  or  a  catechism.  I  believe  in  religion 

v  O 

jest  as  much  as  anybody,  but  a  man  that  can't 
forgit  his  religion  while  he's  courtin'  a  woman  ain't 
worth  havin'.  That's  my  opinion.  But  as  I  was 
savin',  me  and  Abram  had  the  church  question  to 
settle  after  we  was  married,  and  I  don't  believe  either 
one  of  us  thought  about  it  till  Sunday  mornin'  come. 
I  ricollect  it  jest  like  it  was  yesterday.  We  was  married 
in  June,  and  you  know  how  things  always  look  about 
then.  I've  thought  many  a  day,  when  I've  been  out  in 
the  gyarden  workin'  with  my  vegetables  and  getherin' 
my  honeysuckles  and  roses,  that  if  folks  could  jest  live 
on  and  never  git  old  and  it'd  stay  June  forever,  that 
this  world'd  be  heaven  enough  for  anybody.  And  that's 
the  way  it  was  that  Sunday  mornin'.  I  ricollect  I  had 
on  mv  'second-day'  dress,  the  prettiest  sort  of  a  change 
able  silk,  kind  'o  dove  color  and  pink,  and  I  had  a 

163 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

leghorn  bonnet  on  with  pink  roses  inside  the  brim, 
and  black  lace  mitts  on  my  hands.  I  stood  up  before 
the  glass  jest  before  I  went  out  to  the  gate  where  Abram 
was,  waitin'  for  me,  and  I  looked  as  pretty  as  a  pink, 
if  I  do  say  it.  'Self-praise  goes  but  a  little  ways,'  my 
mother  used  to  tell  me,  when  I  was  a  gyirl;  but  I  reckon 
there  ain't  any  harm  in  an  old  woman  like  me  tellin' 
how  she  looked  when  she  was  a  bride  more'n  sixty  years 
ago." 

And  a  faint  color  came  into  the  wrinkled  cheeks, 
while  her  clear,  high  laugh  rang  out.  The  outward 
symbols  of  youth  and  beauty  were  gone,  but  their  un 
quenchable  spirit  lay  warm  under  the  ashes  of  nearly 
eight  decades. 

"Well,  I  went  out,  and  Abram  helped  me  into  the 
buggy  and,  instead  o'  goin'  straight  on  to  Goshen 
church,  he  turned  around  and  drove  out  to  my  church. 
When  we  walked  in  I  could  see  folks  nudgin'  each  other 
and  laughin',  and  when  meetin'  broke  and  we  was  fixin' 
to  go  home,  Aunt  Maria  Taylor  grabbed  hold  o'  me  and 
pulled  me  off  to  one  side  and  says  she,  'That's  right, 
Jane,  you're  beginnin'  in  time.  Jest  break  a  man  in 
at  the  start,  and  you  won't  have  no  trouble  afterwards.' 
And  I  jest  laughed  in  her  face  and  went  on  to  where 

104 


THE    BAPTIZING    AT    KITTLE    CREEK 

Abram  was  waitin'  for  me.  I  was  too  happy  to  git  mad 
that  day.  Well,  the  next  Sunday,  when  we  got  into  the 
buggy  and  Abram  started  to  turn  round,  I  took  hold  o' 
the  reins  and  says  I,  'It's  my  time  to  drive,  Abram;  you 
had  your  way  last  Sunday,  and  now  I'm  goin'  to  have 
mine.'  And  I  snapped  the  whip  over  old  Nell's  back 
and  drove  right  on  to  Goshen,  and  Abram  jest  set  back 
and  laughed  fit  to  kill. 

"We  went  on  that  way  for  two  or  three  months,  folks 
savin'  that  Abram  and  Jane  Parrish  couldn't  go  to  the 
same  church  two  Sundays  straight  along  to  save  their 
lives,  and  everybody  wonderin'  which  of  us'd  have  their 
way  in  the  long  run.  And  me  and  Abram  jest  laughed 
in  our  sleeves  and  paid  no  attention  to  'em;  for  there 
never  was  but  one  way  for  us,  anyhow,  and  that  wasn't 
Ab ram's  way  nor  my  way;  it  was  jest  our  way.  There's 
lots  of  married  folks,  honey,  and  one  of  'em's  here  and 
one  of  'em's  gone  over  yonder,  and  there's  a  long,  deep 
grave  between  'em;  but  they're  a  heap  nearer  to  each 
other  than  two  livin'  people  that  stay  in  the  same  house, 
and  eat  at  the  same  table,  and  sleep  in  the  same  bed, and 
all  the  time  there's  two  great  thick  church  walls  between 
'em  and  growin'  thicker  and  higher  every  day.  Sam 
Amos  used  to  say  that  if  religion  made  folks  act  like 

165 


AUNT   JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

Marthy  and  Amos  did,  he  believed  he'd  ruther  have 
less  religion  or  none  at  all.  But,  honey,  when  you  see 
married  folks  quarrelin'  over  their  churches,  it  ain't  too 
much  religion  that's  the  cause  o'  the  trouble,  it's  too 
little  love.  Jest  ricollect  that;  if  folks  love  each  other 
right,  religion  ain't  goin'  to  come  between  'em. 

"Well,  as  soon  as  cold  weather  set  in  they  started  up 
a  big  revival  at  Goshen  church.  After  the  meetin'  had 
been  goin'  on  for  three  or  four  weeks,  Parson  Page  give 
out  one  Sunday  that  the  session  would  meet  on  the 
follerin'  Thursday  to  examine  all  that  had  experienced 
a  change  o'  heart  and  wanted  to  unite  with  the  church. 
I  never  said  a  word  to  Abram,  but  Thursday  evenin' 
while  he  was  out  on  the  farm  mendin'  some  fences  that 
the  cattle  had  broke  down,  I  harnessed  old  Nell  to  the 
buggy  and  drove  out  to  Goshen.  All  the  converts  was 
there,  and  the  session  was  questionin'  and  examinin' 
when  I  got  in.  AVhen  it  come  my  turn,  Parson  Page 
begun  askin'  me  if  I'd  made  my  callin'  and  election 
sure,  and  I  come  right  out,  and  says  I,  'I  don't  know 
much  about  callin'  and  election,  Brother  Page;  I  reckon 
I'm  a  Christian,'  says  I,  'for  I've  been  tryin'  to  do  right 
by  everybody  ever  since  I  was  old  enough  to  know  the 
difference  betwixt  right  and  wrrong;  but,  if  the  plain 

ICG 


THE    BAPTIZING    AT    KITTLE    CREEK 

truth  was  told,  I'm  j'inin'  this  church  jest  because  it's 
Abram's  church,  and  I  want  to  please  him.  And  that's 
all  the  testimony  I've  got  to  give.'  And  Parson  Page 
put  his  hand  over  his  mouth  to  keep  from  laughin'  - 
he  was  a  young  man  then  and  hadn't  been  married 
long  himself  —  and  says  he,  'That'll  do,  Sister  Parrish; 
brethren,  we'll  pass  on  to  the  next  candidate.'  I  left 
'em  examinin'  Sam  Crawford  about  his  callin'  and 
election,  and  I  got  home  before  Abram  come  to  the 
house,  and  the  next  day  when  I  walked  up  with  the 
rest  of  'em  Abram  was  the  only  person  in  the  church 
that  was  surprised.  AYhen  they'd  got  through  givin' 
us  the  right  hand  o'  fellowship,  and  I  went  back  to  our 
pew,  Abram  took  hold  o'  mv  hand  and  held  on  to  it 
like  he  never  would  let  go,  and  I  knew  I'd  done  the 
right  thing  and  I  never  would  regret  it." 

There  was  a  light  on  the  old  woman's  face  that  made 
me  turn  my  eyes  away.  Here  was  a  personal  revela 
tion  that  should  have  satisfied  the  most  exacting,  but 
my  vulgar  curiosity  cried  out  for  further  light  on  the 
past. 

"AVhat  would  you  have  done,"  I  asked,  "if  Uncle 
Abram  hadn't  turned  the  horse  that  Sunday  morning  — 
if  he  had  gone  straight  on  to  (ioshen  ?" 

1(57 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

Aunt  Jane  regarded  me  for  a  moment  with  a  look  of 
pitying  allowance,  such  as  one  bestows  on  a  child  who 
doesn't  know  any  better  than  to  ask  stupid  questions. 

"Shuh,  child,"  she  said  with  careless  brevity, 
"Abram  couldn't  'a'  done  such  a  thing  as  that." 


108 


VII 


HOW   SAM   AMOS    RODE    IN   THE 
TOURNAMENT 


/ 


/^L,^,...L  VII 

HOW    SAM    AMOS    ROBE    IX    THE    TOURNAMENT 

"  f  I  ^HERE'S  one  thing  I'd  like  mighty  well  to  see 
-*-  again  before  I  die," said  Aunt  Jane,  "and  that  is 
a  good,  old-fashioned  fair.  The  apostle  says  we  must 
'press forward, forgetting  the  things  that  are  behind,'  but 
there's  some  ihings  I've  left  behind  that  I  can't  never 
forget,  and  the  fairs  we  had  in  my  day  is  one  of  'em." 
It  was  the  quietest  hour  of  an  August  afternoon  — 
that  time  when  one  seems  to  have  reached  "the  land 
where  it  is  always  afternoon"  —  and  Aunt  Jane  and  I 
were  sitting  on  the  back  porch,  shelling  butter-beans  for 
the  next  day's  market.  Before  us  lay  the  garden  in 
the  splendid  fulness  of  late  summer.  Concord  and 
Catawba  grapes  loaded  the  vines  on  the  rickety  old 

171 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

arbor;  tomatoes  were  ripening  in  reckless  plenty,  to  be 
given  to  the  neighbors,  or  to  lie  in  tempting  rows  on 
the  window-sill  of  the  kitchen  and  the  shelves  of  the 
back  porch;  the  second  planting  of  cucumber  vines  ran 
in  flowery  luxuriance  over  the  space  allotted  to  them, 
and  even  encroached  on  the  territory  of  the  squashes 
and  melons.  Damsons  hung  purpling  over  the  eaves 
of  the  house,  and  wasps  and  bees  kept  up  a  lively  buzz 
ing  as  they  feasted  on  the  windfalls  of  the  old  yellow 
peach  tree  near  the  garden  gate.  Nature  had  distrib 
uted  her  sunshine  and  showers  with  wise  generosity 
that  year,  and  neither  in  field  nor  in  garden  was  there 
lack  of  any  good  thing.  Perhaps  it  was  this  gracious 
abundance,  presaging  fine  exhibits  at  the  coming  fair, 
that  turned  Aunt  Jane's  thoughts  towards  the  fairs  of 
her  youth. 

"Folks  nowadays  don't  seem  to  think  much  about 
fairs,"  she  continued;  "but  when  I  was  young  a  fair 
was  something  that  the  grown  folks  looked  forward  to 
jest  like  children  look  for  Christmas.  The  women  and 
the  men,  too,  was  gittin'  ready  for  the  fair  all  the  year 
round,  the  women  piecin'  quilts  and  knittin'  socks  and 
weavin'  carpets  and  puttin'  up  preserves  and  pickles, 
and  the  men  raisin'  fine  stock;  and  when  the  fair  come, 

172 


HOW   SAM    AMOS    RODE 

it  was  worth  goin'  to,  child,  and  worth  rememberin' 
after  you'd   gone   to   it. 

"I  hear  folks  talkin'  about  the  fair  every  year,  and 
I  laugh  to  myself  and  I  say,  'You  folks  don't  know  what 
a  fair  is.'  And  I  set  out  there  on  my  porch  fair  week 
and  watch  the  buggies  and  wagons  goin'  by  in  the 
inornin'  and  comin'  home  at  night,  and  I  git  right 
happy,  thinkin'  about  the  time  when  me  and  Abram 
and  the  children  used  to  go  over  the  same  road  to  the 
fair,  but  a  mighty  different  sort  of  fair  from  what  they 
have  nowadays.  One  thing  is,  honey,  they  have  the 
fairs  too  soon.  It  never  was  intended  for  folks  to  go 
to  fairs  in  hot  weather,  and  here  they've  got  to  havin' 
'em  the  first  week  in  September,  about  the  hottest,  dri 
est,  dustiest  time  of  the  whole  year.  Nothin'  looks 
pretty  then,  and  it  always  makes  me  think  o'  folks 
when  they've  been  wearin'  their  summer  clothes  for 
three  months,  and  everything's  all  faded  and  dusty  and 
drabbled.  That's  the  way  it  generally  is  in  September. 
But  jest  wait  till  two  or  three  good  rains  come,  and 
everything's  washed  clean  and  sweet,  and  the  trees  look 
like  they'd  got  a  new  set  o'  leaves,  and  the  grass  comes 
out  green  and  fresh  like  it  does  in  the  spring,  and  the 
nights  and  the  inornin's  feel  cool,  though  it's  hot 

1713 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

enough  in  the  middle  o'  the  day;  and  maybe  there'll 
come  a  touch  of  early  frost,  jest  enough  to  turn  the  top 
leaves  on  the  sugar  maples.  That's  October,  child, 
and  that's  the  time  for  a  fair. 

"Lord,  the  good  times  I've  seen  in  them  days! 
Startin'  early  and  comin'  home  late,  with  the  sun  settin' 
in  front  of  you,  and  by  and  by  the  moon  comin'  up 
behind  you,  and  the  wind  blowin'  cool  out  o'  the.  woods 
on  the  side  o'  the  road;  the  baby  fast  asleep  in  my  arm.5, 
and  the  other  children  talkin'  with  each  other  about 
what  they'd  seen,  and  Abram  drivin'  slow  over  the 
rough  places,  and  lookin'  back  every  once  in  a  while  to 
see  if  we  wTas  all  there.  It's  a  curious  thing,  honey;  I 
liked  fairs  as  well  as  anybody,  and  I  reckon  I  saw  all 
there  was  to  be  seen,  and  heard  everything  there  was  to 
be  heard  every  time  I  went  to  one.  But  now,  when  I 
git  to  callin'  'em  up,  it  appears  to  me  that  the  best  part 
of  it  all,  and  the  part  I  ricollect  the  plainest,  was  jest 
the  goin'  there  and  the  comin'  back  home. 

"Abram  knew  I  liked  to  stay  till  everything  was  over, 
and  he'd  git  somebody  to  water  and  feed  the  stock,  and 
then  I  never  had  any  hot  suppers  to  git  while  the  fair 
lasted;  so  there  wasn't  anything  to  hurry  me  and 
Abram.  I  ricollect  Maria  Petty  come  up  one  day  about 

174 


HOW    SAM    AMOS    RODE 

five  o'clock,  jest  as  we  was  lookin'  at  the  last  race,  and 
says  she,  'I'm  about  to  drop,  Jane;  hut  I  believe  I'd 
ruther  stay  here  and  sleep  on  the  floor  o'  the  amp'i- 
theater  than  to  go  home  and  cook  a  hot  supper.'  And 
I  says,  'Don't  cook  a  hot  supper,  then.'  And  says  she, 
'Why,  Silas  wouldn't  cat  a  piece  o'  cold  bread  at  home 
to  save  his  life  or  mine  either.' 

"There's  a  heap  o'  women  to  be  pitied,  child,"  said 
Aunt  Jane,  dropping  a  handful  of  shelled  beans  into  my 
pan  with  a  cheerful  clatter,  "but,  of  all  things,  deliver 
me  from  livin'  with  a  man  that  has  to  have  hot  bread 
three  times  a  day.  Milly  Amos  used  to  say  that  when 
she  died  she  wanted  a  hot  biscuit  carved  on  her  tomb 
stone;  and  that  if  it  wasn't  for  hot  biscuits,  there'd  be  a 
mighty  small  crop  of  widowers.  Sam,  you  see,  was 
another  man  that  couldn't  eat  cold  bread.  But  Sam 
had  a  rij^ht  to  his  hot  biscuits;  for  if  Millv  didn't  feel 

v 

like  goin'  into  the  kitchen,  Sam'd  go  out  and  mix  up 
his  biscuits  and  bake  'em  himself.  Sam's  soda  bis 
cuits  was  as  good  as  mine;  and  when  it  come  to  beaten 
biscuits,  why  nobody  could  equal  Sam.  Milly 'd  make 
up  the  dough  as  stiff  as  she  could  handle  it,  and  Sam'd 
beat  it  till  it  was  soft  enough  to  roll  out;  and  such  bis 
cuits  I  never  expect  to  eat  again  —  white  and  light  as 

175 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

snow  inside,  and  crisp  as  a  cracker  outside.  Folks 
nowadays  makes  beaten  biscuits  by  machinery,  but  they 
don't  taste  like  the  old-fashioned  kind  that  was  beat  by 
hand. 

"And  talkin'  about  biscuits,  child,  reminds  me  of  the 
cookin'  I  used  to  do  for  the  fairs.  I  don't  reckon  many 
women  likes  to  remember  the  cookin'  they've  done. 
When  folks  git  to  rememberin',  it  looks  like  the  only 
thing  they  want  to  call  up  is  the  pleasure  they've  had, 
the  picnics  and  the  weddin's  and  the  tea-parties.  But 
somehow  the  work  I've  done  in  my  day  is  jest  as  pre 
cious  to  me  as  the  play  I've  had.  I  hear  young  folks 
complainin'  about  havin'  to  work  so  hard,  and  I  say  to 
'em,  'Child,  when  you  git  to  be  as  old  as  I  am,  and 
can't  work  all  you  want  to,  you'll  know  there  ain't  any 
pleasure  like  good  hard  work.' 

"There's  one  thing  that  bothers  me,  child,"  and 
Aunt  Jane's  voice  sank  to  a  confidential  key:  "I've  had 
a  plenty  o'  fears  in  my  life,  but  they've  all  passed  over 
me;  and  now  there's  jest  one  thing  I'm  afraid  of:  that 
I'll  live  to  be  too  old  to  work.  It  appears  to  me  like  I 
could  stand  anything  but  that.  And  if  the  time  ever 
comes  when  I  can't  help  myself,  nor  other  folks  either, 
I  trust  the  Lord '11  see  fit  to  call  me  hence  and 

176 


HOW   SAM   AMOS    RODE 

give  me  a  new  body,  and  start  me  to  work  again  right 
away. 

"But,  as  I  was  savin',  I  always  enjoyed  cookin',  and 
it's  a  pleasure  to  me  "to  set  and  think  about  the  hams 
I've  b'iled  and  the  salt-risin'  bread  I've  baked  and  the 
old-fashioned  pound-cake  and  sponge-cake  and  all  the 
rest  o'  the  things  I  used  to  take  to  the  fair.  Abram  was 
always  mighty  proud  o'  my  cookin',  and  we  generally 
had  a  half  a  dozen  or  more  o'  the  town  folks  to  eat 
dinner  with  us  every  day  o'  the  fair.  Old  Judge  Grace 
and  Dr.  Brigham  never  failed  to  eat  with  us.  The  old 
judge'd  say  something  about  my  salt-risin'  bread  every 
time  I'd  meet  him  in  town.  The  first  year  my  bread 
took  the  premium,  Abram  sent  the  premium  loaf  to 
him  with  the  blue  ribbon  tied  around  it.  After  Abram 
died  I  stopped  goin'  to  the  fairs,  and  I  don't  know  how 
many  years  it'd  been  since  I  set  foot  on  the  grounds. 
I  hadn't  an  idea  how  things 'd  changed  since  my  day  till, 
year  before  last,  Henrietta  and  her  husband  come  down 
here  from  Danville.  He'd  come  to  show  some  blooded 
stock,  and  she  come  along  with  him  to  see  me.  And 
says  she,  'Grandma,  you've  got  to  go  to  the  fair  with 
me  one  day,  anyhow;'  and  I  went  more  to  please  her 
than  to  please  myself. 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

"I'm  always  contending  child,  that  this  world's 
growin'  better  and  better  all  the  time;  but,  Lord!  Lord! 
that  fair  come  pretty  near  upsettin'  my  faith.  Why, 
in  my  day  folks  could  take  their  children  to  the  fair  and 
turn  'em  loose;  and,  if  they  had  sense  enough  to  keep 
from  under  the  horses'  feet,  they  was  jest  as  safe  at  the 
fair  as  they  wras  at  a  May  meetin'.  But,  la!  the  sights 
I  saw  that  day  Henrietta  took  me  to  the  fair!  Every 
which  way  you'd  look  there  was  some  sort  of  a  trap  for 
temptin'  bovs  and  leudin'  'em  astray.  Whisky  and 
beer  and  all  sorts  o'  gamblin'  machines  and  pool  sellin', 
and  little  boys  no  higher'n  that  smokin'  little  white 
cigyars,  and  offerin'  to  bet  with  each  other  on  the  races. 
And  I  says  to  Henrietta,  'Child,  I  don't  call  this  a  fair; 
why,  it's  jest  nothin'  but  a  gamblin'  den  and  a  whisky 
saloon.  And,'  says  I,  'I  know  now  what  old  Uncle 
Henry  Matthews  meant.'  I'd  asked  the  old  man  if  he 
was  goin'  to  show  anything  at  the  fair  that  year,  and 
he  said,  'No,  Jane.  Unless  you've  got  somethin'  for 
the  town  folks  to  bet  on,  it  ain't  worth  while.' 

"But  there  was  one  thing  I  did  enjoy  that  day,  and 
that  was  the  races.  There's  some  folks  thinks  that 
racin'  horses  is  a  terrible  sin;  but  I  don't.  It's  the 
bettin'  and  the  swearin'  that  goes  with  the  racin'  that's 

178 


HOW   SAM   AMOS    RODE 

the  sin.  If  folks'd  behave  as  well  as  the  horses  behaves, 
a  race'd  be  jest  as  religious  as  a  Sunday-school  picnic. 
There  ain't  a  finer  sight  to  me  than  a  blooded  horse 
goin'  at  a  two-forty  gait  round  a  smooth  track,  and  the 
sun  a-shinin'  and  the  flags  a-wavin'  and  the  wind 
blowin'  and  the  folks  cheerin'  and  hollerin'.  So,  when 
Henrietta  said  the  races  was  goin'  to  begin,  I  says,  says 
I,  'Here,  child,  take  hold  o'  my  arm  and  help  me  down 
these  steps;  I'm  goin'  to  see  one  more  race  before  I  die.' 
And  Henrietta  helped  me  down,  and  we  went  over  to 
the  grand  stand  and  got  a  good  seat  where  I  could  sec 
the  horses  when  they  come  to  the  finish.  I  tell  you, 
honey,  it  made  me  feel  young  again  jest  to  see  them 
horses  coverin'  the  ground  like  they  did.  My  father 
used  to  raise  fine  horses,  and  Abram  used  to  say  that 
\vhcn  it  come  to  knowin'  a  horse's  p'ints,  he'd  back  me 
against  any  man  in  Kentucky.  I'll  have  to  be  a  heap 
older'n  I  am  now  before  I  see  the  day  when  I  wouldn't 
turn  around  and  walk  a  good  piece  to  look  at  a  fine 
horse." 

And  the  old  lady  gave  a  laugh  at  this  confession  of 
weakness. 

"It  was  like  old  times  to  see  the  way  them  horses  run. 
And  when  they  come  to  the  finish  I  was  laughin'  and 

179 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

hollerin'  as  much  as  anybody.  And  jest  then  some 
body  right  behind  me  give  a  yell,  and  says  he: 

"Hurrah  for  old  Kentucky!  When  it  comes  to  fine 
horses  and  fine  whisky  and  fine  women,  she  can't  be 
beat.' 

"Everybody  begun  to  laugh,  and  a  man  right  in 
front  o'  me  says,  'It's  that  young  feller  from  Lexin'ton. 
His  father's  one  o'  the  biggest  horsemen  in  the  state. 
That's  his  horse  that's  jest  won  the  race.'  And  I 
turned  around  to  see,  and  there  was  a  boy  about  the 
size  o'  my  youngest  grandchild  up  at  Danville.  His 
hat  was  set  on  the  back  of  his  head,  and  his  hair  was 
combed  down  over  his  eyes  till  he  looked  like  he'd 
come  out  of  a  feeble-minded  school.  He  had  a  little 
white  cigyar  in  his  mouth,  and  you  could  tell  by  his 
breath  that  he'd  been  drinkin'. 

"Now  I  ain't  much  of  a  hand  for  meddlin'  with  other 
folks'  business,  but  I'd  been  readin'  about  the  Salva 
tion  Army,  and  how  they  preach  on  the  street;  and  it 
come  into  my  head  that  here  was  a  time  for  some  Sal 
vation  work.  And  I  says  to  him,  says  I,  'Son,  there's 
another  thing  that  Kentucky  used  to  be  hard  to  beat  on, 
and  that  was  fine  men.  But,'  says  I,  'betwixt  the  fine 
horses  and  the  fine  women  and  the  fine  whisky,  some 

180 


HOW   SAM    AMOS    RODE 

o'  the  men  has  got  to  be  a  mighty  common  lot.'  Says  I, 
'Holler  as  much  as  you  please  for  that  horse  out  there; 
he's  worth  hollcrin'  for.  But/  says  I,  'when  a  state's 
got  to  raisin'  a  better  breed  o'  horses  than  she  raises 
men,  it  ain't  no  time  to  be  hollerin'  "hurrah"  for  her.' 
Says  I,  'You're  your  father's  son,  and  vender's  your 
father's  horse;  now  which  do  you  reckon  your  father's 
proudest  of  to-day,  his  horse  or  his  son  ? ' 

"Well,  folks  begun  to  laugh  again,  and  the  boy 
looked  like  he  wanted  to  say  somethin'  sassy,  but 
he  couldn't  git  his  wits  together  enough  to  think  up 
anything.  And  I  says,  says  I, '  That  horse  never  touched 
whisky  or  tobacco  in  his  life;  he's  clean-blooded  and 
clean-lived,  and  he'll  live  to  a  good  old  age;  and,  maybe, 
when  he  dies  they'll  bury  him  like  a  Christian,  and  put 
a  monument  up  over  him  like  they  did  over  Ten  Broeck. 
But  you,  why,  you  ain't  hardly  out  o'  your  short  pants, 
and  you're  fifty  years  old  if  you're  a  day.  You'll  bring 
your  father's  gray  hairs  in  sorrow  to  the  grave,  and 
you'll  go  to  your  own  grave  a  heap  sooner'n  you  ought 
to,  and  nobody '11  ever  build  a  monument  over  you.' 

"There  was  three  or  four  boys  along  with  the  Lex- 
in'ton  boy,  and  one  of  'ern  that  appeared  to  have  less 
whisky  in  him  than  the  rest,  he  says,  'Well,  grandma, 

181 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

I  reckon  you're  about  right;  we're  a  pretty  bad  lot.' 
And  says  he,  'Come  on,  boys,  and  let's  git  out  o'  this.' 
And  off  they  went;  and  whether  my  preachin'  overdid 
'em  any  good  I  don't  know,  but  I  couldn't  help  sayin' 
what  I  did,  and  that's  the  last  time  I  ever  went  to  these 
new-fashioned  fairs  they're  havin'  nowadays.  Fair 
time  used  to  mean  a  heap  to  me,  but  now  it  don't  mean 
anything  but  jest  to  put  me  in  mind  o'  old  times." 

Just  then  there  was  a  sound  of  galloping  hoofs  on  the 
pike,  and  loud  "whoas"  from  a  rider  in  distress.  We 
started  up  with  the  eagerness  of  those  whose  lives  have 
flowed  too  long  in  the  channels  of  stillness  and  peace. 
Here  wras  a  possibility  of  adventure  not  to  be  lost  for 
any  consideration.  Aunt  Jane  dropped  her  pan  with  a 
sharp  clang;  I  gathered  up  my  skirt  with  its  measure 
of  unshelled  beans,  and  together  we  rushed  to  the  front 
of  the  house. 

It  was  a  "solitary  horseman,"  wholly  and  ludicrously 
at  the  mercy  of  his  steed,  a  mischievous  young  horse 
that  had  never  felt  the  bridle  and  bit  of  a  trainer. 

"It's  that  red-headed  boy  of  Joe  Crofton's,"  chuckled 
Aunt  Jane.  "  Nobody 'd  ever  think  he  was  born  in 
Kentucky;  now,  would  they?  Old  Man  Bob  Craw 
ford  used  to  say  that  every  country  boy  in  this  state 

182 


HOW   SAM   AMOS    RODE 

was  a  sort  o'  half-brother  to  a  horse.  But  that  boy 
yonder  ain't  no  kin  to  the  filly  he's  tryin'  to  ride. 
There's  good  blood  in  that  filly  as  sure's  you're  born. 
I  can  tell  by  the  way  she  throws  her  head  and  uses  her 
feet.  She'll  make  a  fine  saddle-mare,  if  her  master 
ever  gets  hold  of  her.  Jest  look  yonder,  will  you?" 

The  horse  had  come  to  a  stand;  she  gave  a  sudden 
backward  leap,  raised  herself  on  her  hind  legs,  came 
down  on  all  fours  with  a  great  clatter  of  hoofs,  and 
began  a  circular  dance  over  the  smooth  road.  Hound 
she  went,  stepping  as  daintily  as  a  maiden  at  a  May 
day  dance,  while  the  rider  clung  to  the  reins,  dug  his 
bare  heels  into  the  glossy  sides  of  his  steed,  and  yelled 
"whoa,"  as  if  his  salvation  lay  in  that  word.  Then, 
as  if  just  awakened  to  a  sense  of  duty,  the  filly  ceased 
her  antics,  tossed  her  head  with  a  determined  air,  and 
broke  into  a  brisk,  clean  gallop  that  would  have  de 
lighted  a  skilled  rider,  but  seemed  to  bring  only  fresh 
dismay  to  the  soul  of  Joe  Crofton's  boy.  His  arms 
flapped  dismally  and  hopelessly  up  and  down;  a  gust  of 
wind  seized  his  ragged  cap  and  tossed  it  impishly  on 
one  of  the  topmost  boughs  of  the  Osage-orange  hedge; 
his  protesting  "whoa"  voiced  the  hopelessness  of  one 
who  resigns  himself  to  the  power  of  a  dire  fate,  and  he 

183 


AUNT   JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

disappeared  ingloriously  in  a  cloud  of  summer  dust. 
Whereupon  we  returned  to  the  prosaic  work  of  bean- 
shelling,  with  the  feeling  of  those  who  have  watched  the 
curtain  go  down  on  the  last  scene  of  the  comedy. 

"I  declare  to  goodness,"  sighed  Aunt  Jane  breath 
lessly,  as  she  stooped  to  recover  her  pan,  "I  ain't 
laughed  so  much  in  I  don't  know  when.  It  reminds  me 
o'  the  time  Sam  Amos  rode  in  the  t'u'nament."  And 
she  began  laughing  again  at  some  recollection  in  which 
I  had  no  part. 

"Now,  that's  right  curious,  ain't  it?  When  I  set 
here  talkin'  about  fairs,  that  boy  comes  by  and  makes 
me  think  o'  how  Sam  rode  at  the  fair  that  year  they  had 
the  t'u'nament.  I  don't  know  how  long  it's  been  since 
I  thought  o'  that  ride,  and  maybe  I  never  would  'a' 
thought  of  it  again  if  that  boy  of  Joe  Crof ton's  hadn't 
put  me  in  mind  of  it." 

I  dropped  my  butter-beans  for  a  moment  and  as 
sumed  a  listening  attitude,  and  without  any  further 
solicitation,  and  in  the  natural  course  of  events,  the 
story  began. 

"You  see  the  town  folks  was  always  gittin'  up  some- 
thin'  new  for  the  fair,  and  that  year  I'm  talkin'  about  it 
was  a  t'u'nament.  All  the  Goshen  folks  that  went 

184 


HOW    SAM    AMOS    RODE 

to  town  the  last  County  Court  day  before  the  fair  conic 
hack  with  the  news  that  there  was  goin'  to  be  a  t'u'na- 
incnt  the  third  day  o'  the  fair.  Everybody  was  sayin', 
'What's  that?'  and  nobody  could  answer  'em  till  Sam 
Crawford  went  to  town  one  Saturday  jest  before  the 
fair,  and  come  back  with  the  whole  thing  at  his  tongue's 
end.  Sam  heard  that  they  was  practisin'  for  the  t'u'na- 

«/  1 

incut  that  evenin',  and  as  he  passed  the  fair  grounds  on 
his  way  home,  he  made  a  p'int  of  goin'  in  and  seein' 
what  they  was  about.  He  said  there  was  twelve  young 
men,  and  they  was  called  knights;  and  they  had  a  lot 
o'  iron  rings  hung  from  the  posts  of  the  amp'itheater, 
and  they'd  tear  around  the  ring  like  mad  and  try  to 
stick  a  pole  through  every  ring  and  carry  it  off  with  'em, 
and  the  one  that  got  the  most  rings  got  the  blue  ribbon. 
Sam  said  it  took  a  good  eye  and  a  steady  arm  and  a 
good  seat  to  manage  the  thing,  and  he  enjoyed  watchin' 
'em.  'But,'  savs  lie,  'why  they  call  the  thing  a  t'u'na- 
ment  is  more'n  I  could  make  out.  I  stayed  there  a 
plumb  hour,  and  I  couldn't  hear  nor  see  anything  that 
sounded  or  looked  like  a  tune.1 

"Well,  the  third  day  o'  the  fair  come,  and  we  was  all 
on  hand  to  see  the  t'u'nament.  It  went  off  jest  like 
Sam  said.  There  was  twelve  knights,  all  dressed  in 

is:, 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

black  velvet,  with  gold  and  silver  spangles,  and  they 
galloped  around  and  tried  to  take  off  the  rings  on  their 
long  poles.  When  they  got  through  with  that,  the 
knights  they  rode  up  to  the  judges  with  a  wreath  o' 
flowers  on  the  ends  o'  their  poles  —  lances,  they  called 
'em  —  and  every  knight  called  out  the  name  o'  the  lady 
that  he  thought  the  most  of;  and  she  come  up  to  the 
stand,  and  they  put  the  wreath  on  her  head,  and  there 
was  twelve  pretty  gyirls  with  flowers  on  their  heads,  and 
they  was  'Queens  of  Love  and  Beauty.'  It  was  a 
mighty  pretty  sight,  I  tell  you;  and  the  band  was  playin' 
'Old  Kentucky  Home,'  and  everybody  was  hollerin' 
and  throwin'  up  their  hats.  Then  the  knights  gal 
loped  around  the  ring  once  and  went  out  at  the  big 
gate,  and  come  up  and  promenaded  around  the  amp'i- 
theater  with  the  gyirls  they  had  crowned.  The  knight 
that  got  the  blue  ribbon  took  off  ten  rings  out  o'  the 
fifteen.  He  rode  a  mighty  fine  horse,  and  Sam  Amos, 
he  says,  'I  believe  in  my  soul  if  I'd  'a'  been  on  that 
horse  I  could  'a'  taken  off  every  one  o'  them  rings.' 
Sam  was  a  mighty  good  rider,  and  Milly  used  to  say 
that  the  only  thing  that'd  make  Sam  enjoy  ridin'  more'n 
he  did  was  for  somebody  to  put  up  lookin'-glasses  so  he 
could  see  himself  all  along  the  road. 

186 


HOW    SAM    AMOS    RODE 

"Well,  the  next  thing  on  the  prog-rani  was  the 
gentleman  riders'  ring.  The  premium  was  five  dollars 
in  gold  for  the  best  gentleman  rider.  We  was  waitin' 
for  that  to  commence,  when  Uncle  Jim  Matthews  come 
up,  and  says  he,  'Sam,  there's  only  one  entry  in  this 
ring,  and  it's  about  to  fall  through.' 

"You  see  they  had  made  a  rule  that  year  that  there 
shouldn't  be  any  premiums  given  unless  there  was  some 
competition.  And  Uncle  Jim  says,  'There's  a  young 
feller  from  Simpson  County  out  there  mighty  anxious 
to  ride.  He  come  up  here  on  purpose  to  git  that  pre 
mium.  Suppose  you  ride  ag'inst  him  and  show  him 
that  Simpson  can't  beat  Warren.'  Sam  laughed  like 
he  was  mightily  pleased,  and  says  he,  'I  don't  care  a 
raj)  for  the  premium,  Uncle  Jim,  but,  jest  to  oblige  the 
man  from  Simpson,  I'll  ride.  But,'  says  he,  'I  ought  to 
'a'  known  it  this  mornin'  so  I  could  'a'  put  on  my  Sun 
day  clothes.'  And  Uncle  Jim  says,  'Never  mind  that; 
you  set  your  horse  straight  and  carry  yourself  jest  so, 
and  the  judges  won't  look  at  your  clothes.'  'How 
about  the  horse?'  says  Sam.  'Why,'  says  Uncle  Jim, 
'there's  a  dozen  or  more  good-lookin'  saddle-horses  out 
yonder  outside  the  big  gate,  and  you  can  have  your 
pick.'  So  Sam  started  off,  and  the  next  thing  him  and 

187 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

the  man  from  Simpson  was  trottin'  around  the  ring. 
Us  Goshen  people  kind  o'  kept  together  when  we  set 
down  in  the  amp'itheater.  Every  time  Sam'd  go  past 
us,  we'd  all  holler  'hurrah!'  for  him.  The  Simpson 
man  appeared  to  have  a  lot  o'  friends  on  the  other  side 
o'  the  amp'itheater,  and  they'd  holler  for  him,  and  the 
town  folks  was  divided  up  about  even. 

"Both  o'  the  men  rode  mighty  well.  They  put  their 
horses  through  all  the  gaits,  rackin'  and  pacin'  and 
lopin',  and  it  looked  like  it  was  goin'  to  be  a  tie,  when 
all  at  once  the  band  struck  up  'Dixie,'  and  Sam's  horse 
broke  into  a  gallop.  Sam  didn't  mind  that;  he  jest 
pushed  his  hat  down  on  his  head  and  took  a  firm  seat, 
and  seemed  to  enjoy  it  as  much  as  anybody.  But  after 
he'd  galloped  around  the  ring  two  or  three  times,  he 
tried  to  rein  the  horse  in  and  get  him  down  to  a  nice 
steady  trot  like  the  Simpson  man  was  doin'.  But,  no, 
sir.  That  horse  hadn't  any  idea  of  stoppin'.  The 
harder  the  band  played  the  faster  he  galloped;  and 
Uncle  Jim  Matthews  says,  'I  reckon  Sam's  horse  thinks 
it's  another  t'u'nament.'  And  Abram  says,  'Goes  like 
he'd  been  paid  to  gallop  jest  that  way;  don't  he,  Uncle 
Jim?' 

"But  horses  has  a  heap  o'  sense,  child;  and  it  looked 
188 


HOW    SAM    AMOS    RODE 

to  me  like  the  horse  knew  he  had  Sam  Amos,  one  o'  the 
best  riders  in  the  county,  on  his  back  and  he  was  jest 
playin'  a  little  joke  on  him. 

"Well,  of  course  when  the  judges  seen  that  Sam'd 
lost  control  of  his  horse,  they  called  the  Simpson  man  up 
and  tied  the  blue  ribbon  on  him.  And  he  took  off  his 
hat  and  waved  it  around,  and  then  he  trotted  around 
the  ring,  and  the  Simpson  folks  hollered  and  threw  up 
their  hats.  And  all  that  time  Sam's  horse  was  tearin' 
around  the  ring  jest  as  hard  as  he  could  go.  Sam's  hat 
was  off,  and  I  ricollect  jest  how  his  hair  looked,  blowin' 
back  in  the  wind  —  ^VOHy  hadn't  trimmed  it  for  some 
time — and  him  gittin'  madder  and  madder  every  min 
ute.  Of  course  us  Goshcn  folks  was  mad,  too,  because 
Sam  didn't  git  the  blue  ribbon;  but  we  had  to  laugh,  and 
the  town  folks  and  the  Simpson  folks  they  looked  like 

*/ 

they'd  split  their  sides.  Old  Man  Bob  Crawford  jest 
laid  back  on  the  benches  and  hollered  and  laughed  till 
he  got  right  purple  in  the  face.  And  says  he,  'This 
beats  the  Kittle  Creek  babtizin'  all  to  pieces.' 

"Well,  nobody  knows  how  long  that  horse  would  'a' 
kept  on  gallopin',  for  Sam  couldn't  stop  him;  but 
finally  two  o'  the  judges  they  stepped  out  and  headed 
him  off  and  took  hold  o'  the  bridle  and  led  him  out  o' 

189 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

the  ring.  And  Uncle  Jim  Matthews  he  jumps  up,  and 
says  he,  'Let  me  out  o'  here.  I  want  to  see  Sam  when 
he  gits  off  o'  that  horse.'  Milly  was  settin'  on  the  top 
seat  considerably  higher'n  I  was.  And  says  she,  'I 
wouldn't  care  if  I  didn't  see  Sam  for  a  week  to  come. 
Sam  don't  git  mad  often,'  says  she,  'but  when  he  does, 
folks'd  better  keep  out  o'  his  way.' 

"Well,  Uncle  Jim  started  off,  and  the  rest  of  us  set 
still  and  waited;  and  pretty  soon  here  come  Sam  lookin' 
mad  enough  to  fight  all  creation,  sure  enough.  Every 
body  was  still  laughin',  but  nobody  said  anything  to 
Sam  till  up  comes  Old  Man  Bob  Crawford  with  about 
two  yards  o'  blue  ribbon.  He'd  jumped  over  into  the 
ring  and  got  it  from  the  judges  as  soon  as  he  could  quit 
laughin'.  And  says  he,  'Sam,  I  have  seen  graccfuler 
riders,  and  riders  that  had  more  control  over  their 
horses,  but,'  says  he,  'I  never  seen  one  yet  that  stuck 
on  a  horse  faithfuler'n  you  did  in  that  little  t'u'nament 
o'  yours  jest  now;  and  I'm  goin'  to  tie  this  ribbon  on 
you  jest  as  a  premium  for  stickin'  on,  when  you  might 
jest  as  easy  'a'  fell  off.'  Well,  everybody  looked  for 
Sam  to  double  up  his  fist  and  knock  Old  Man  Bob 
down,  and  he  might  'a'  done  it,  but  Milly  saw  how 
things  was  goin',  and  she  come  hurryin'  up.  Milly  was 

190 


HOW    SAM    AMOS    RODE 

a  mighty  pretty  woman,  and  always  dressed  herself  neat 
arid  trim,  but  she'd  been  goin'  around  with  little  Sam 
in  her  arms,  and  her  hair  was  fallin'  down,  and  she 
looked  like  any  woman 'd  look  that'd  carried  a  heavy 
baby  all  day  and  dragged  her  dress  over  a  dusty  floor. 
She  come  up,  and  says  she,  'Well,  Sam,  ain't  you  goin' 
to  crown  me  "Queen  o'  Love  and  Beauty"?'  Folks 
used  to  say  that  Sam  never  was  so  mad  that  Milly 
couldn't  make  him  laugh,  and  says  he,  'You  look  like 
a  queen  o'  love  and  beauty,  don't  you?'  Of  course 
that  turned  the  laugh  on  Milly,  and  then  Sam  come 
around  all  right.  And  says  he,  'Well,  neighbors,  I've 
made  a  fool  o'  myself,  and  no  mistake;  and  you  all  can 
laugh  as  much  as  you  want  to;'  and  he  took  Old  Man 
Bob's  blue  ribbon  and  tied  it  on  little  Sam's  arm,  and 
him  and  Milly  walked  off  together  as  pleasant  as  you 
please.  And  that's  how  Sam  Amos  rode  in  the  t'u'na- 
mcnt,"  said  Aunt  Jane  conclusively,  as  she  arose  from 
her  chair  and  shook  a  lapful  of  bean  pods  into  a  willow 
basket  near  by. 

"Is  Sam  Amos  living  vet?"  I  asked,  in  the  hope  of 
prolonging  an  o'er-short  talc.  A  softened  look  came 
over  Aunt  Jane's  face. 

"No,  child,"  she  said  quietly,  "Sam's  oldest  son  is 
191 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

livin'  yet,  and  his  three  daughters.  They  all  moved 
out  o'  the  Goshen  neighborhood  long  ago.  But  Sam's 
been  in  his  grave  twenty  years  or  more,  and  here  I  set 
laughin'  about  that  ride  o'  his.  Somehow  or  other  I've 
outlived  nearly  all  of  'em.  And  now  when  I  git  to 
fallin'  up  old  times,  no  matter  where  I  start  out,  I'm 
pretty  certain  to  end  over  in  the  old  buryin'- ground 
yonder.  But  then,"  and  she  smiled  brightly,  "there's 
a  plenty  more  to  be  told  over  on  the  other  side." 


VIII 
MARY  ANDREWS'  DINNER-PARTY 


193 


l^P^S^— ^!  y  j  j  i 


MARY   ANDREWS     DINNER-PARTY 

WELL!"  exclaimed  Aunt  Jane,  as  she  surveyed 
her  dinner-table,  "looks  like  Mary  Andrews' 
dinner-party,  don't  it  ?    However,  there's  a  plenty  of  it 
such  as  it  is,  and  good  enough  what  there  is  of  it,  as 
the  old  man  said;  so  set  down,  child,  and  help  yourself." 
A  loaf  of  Aunt  Jane's  salt-rising  bread,  a  plate  of 
golden  butter,  a  pitcher  of  Jersey  milk,  and  a  bowl  of 

195 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

honey  in  the  comb,  —  who  would  ask  for  more  ?  And 
as  I  sat  down  I  blessed  the  friendly  rain  that  had  kept 
me  from  going  home. 

"But  who  was  Mary  Andrews?  and  what  about  her 
dinner-party?"  I  asked,  as  I  buttered  my  bread. 

"Eat  your  dinner,  child,  and  then  we'll  talk  about 
Mary  Andrews,"  laughed  Aunt  Jane.  "  If  I'd  'a'  thought 
before  I  spoke,  which  I  hardly  ever  do,  I  wouldn't  'a' 
mentioned  Mary  Andrews,  for  I  know  you  won't  let  me 
see  any  rest  till  you  know  all  about  her." 

And  Aunt  Jane  was  quite  right.  A  summer  rain,  and 
a  story,  too! 

"I  reckon  there's  mighty  few  livin'  that  ricollect 
about  Mary  Andrews  and  her  dinner-party,"  she  said 
meditatively  an  hour  later,  when  the  dishes  had  been 
washed  and  we  were  seated  in  the  old-fashioned 
parlor. 

"Mary  Andrews'  maiden  name  was  Crawford.  A 
first  cousin  of  Sam  Crawford  she  was.  Her  father  was 
Jerry  Crawford,  a  brother  of  Old  Man  Bob,  and  her 
mother  was  a  Simpson.  People  used  to  say  that  the 
Crawfords  and  the  Simpsons  wras  like  two  mud-puddles 
with  a  ditch  between,  always  runnin'  together.  I 
ricollect  one  year  three  Crawford  sisters  married  three 

196 


MARY   ANDREWS'    DINNER-PARTY 

Simpson  brothers.  Mary  was  about  my  age,  and  she 
married  Harvey  Andrews  a  little  over  a  year  after  me 
and  Abram  married,  and  there's  few  women  I  ever  knew 
better  and  liked  more  than  I  did  Mary  Andrews. 

"I  ricollect  her  weddin'  nearly  as  well  as  I  do  my  own. 
My  Jane  was  jest  a  month  old,  and  I  had  to  ask  mother 
to  come  over  and  stay  with  the  baby  while  I  went  to  the 
weddin'.  I  hadn't  thought  much  about  what  I'd  wear 
-  I'd  been  so  taken  up  with  the  baby  —  and  I  ricollect 
T  went  to  the  big  chest  o'  drawers  in  the  spare  room  and 
jerked  out  my  weddin'  dress,  and  says  I  to  mother, 
'There'll  be  two  brides  at  the  weddin'!' 

"But,  bless  your  life,  when  I  tried  to  make  it  meet 
around  my  waist,  why,  it  lacked  four  or  five  inches  of 
coinin'  together;  and  mother  set  and  laughed  fit  to  kill, 
and,  says  she,  'Jane,  that  dress  w.as  made  for  a  young 
girl,  and  you'll  never  be  a  young  girl  again!'  And  I 
says,  'Well,  I  may  never  fasten  this  dress  around  my 
waist  a<>-ain,  but  I  don't  know  what's  to  hinder  me  from 

O 

bein'  a  vouno-  mrl  all  mv  life.' 

v  O    O  «- 

"I  wish  to  goodness,"  she  went  on,  "that  I  could 
ricollect  what  I  wore  to  Mary  Andrews'  weddin'.  I 
know  I  didn't  wear  my  weddin'  dress,  and  I  know  I 
went,  but  to  save  my  life  I  can't  call  up  the  dress  I  had 

197 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

on.  It  ain't  like  me  to  forgit  the  clothes  I  used  to  wear, 
but  I  can't  call  it  up.  However,  what  I  wore  to  Mary 
Andrews'  weddin'  ain't  got  anything  to  do  with  Mary 
Andrews'  dinner-party." 

Aunt  Jane  paused  and  scratched  her  head  reflectively 
with  a  knitting  needle.  Evidently  she  was  loath  to  go 
on  with  her  story  till  the  memory  of  that  wedding 
garment  should  return  to  her. 

"I  was  readin'  the  other  day,"  she  continued, "about 
somethin'  they've  got  off  yonder  in  Washington,  some 
sort  of  bureau  that  tells  folks  what  the  weather'll  be, 
and  warns  the  ships  about  settin'  off  on  a  voyage  when 
there's  a  storm  ahead.  And  says  I  to  myself,  'Do  you 
reckon  they'll  ever  git  so  smart  that  they  can  tell  what 
sort  o'  weather  there  is  ahead  o'  two  people  jest  married 
and  settin'  out  on  the  voyage  that  won't  end  till  death 
parts  'em  ?  and  what  sort  o'  weather  they're  goin'  to 
have  six  months  from  the  weddin'  day  ? '  The  world 's 
gittin'  wiser  every  day,  child,  but  there  ain't  nobody 
wise  enough  to  tell  what  sort  of  a  husband  a  man's  goin' 
to  make,  nor  what  sort  of  a  wife  a  woman's  goin'  to 
make,  nor  how  a  weddin'  is  goin'  to  turn  out.  I've 
watched  folks  marryin'  for  more'n  seventy  years,  and  I 
don't  know  much  more  about  it  than  I  did  when  I  was 

198 


MARY    ANDREWS'    DINNER-PARTY 

;i  ten-year-old  child.  I've  seen  folks  marry  when  it 
looked  like  certain  destruction  for  both  of  'em,  and  all 
at  once  they'd  take  a  turn  that'd  surprise  everybody, 
and  things  would  come  out  all  right  with  'em.  There 
was  Wick  Harris  and  Virginia  Matthews.  Wick  was 
jest  such  a  boy  as  Dick  Elrod,  and  Virginia  was  another 
Annie  Crawford.  She'd  never  done  a  stitch  o'  sewin' 
nor  cooked  a  meal  o'  victuals  in  her  life,  and  I  ricollect 
her  mother  savin'  she  didn't  know  which  she  felt 
sorriest  for,  Wick  or  Virginia,  and  she  wished  to  good 
ness  there- was  a  law  to  keep  such  folks  from  marryin'. 
But,  bless  your  life!  instead  o'  comin'  to  shipwreck  like 
Dick  and  Annie,  they  settled  down  as  steady  as  any  old 
married  couple  you  ever  saw.  Wick  quit  his  drinkin' 
and  gamblin',  and  Virginia,  why,  there  wasn't  a  better 
housekeeper  in  the  state  nor  a  better  mother'n  she  got 
to  be. 

"And   then   I've   seen    'em   marry  when   everything 
looked  bright  ahead  and  evervbody  was  certain  it  was 

O  v  v 

a  (rood  tiling  for  both  of  'em,  and  it  turned  out  that 

o  O 

everybody  was  wrong.  That's  the  way  it  was  with 
Mary  Andrews  and  Harvey.  Nobody  had  a  misgivin' 
about  it.  Mary  was  as  happy  as  a  lark,  and  Harvey 
looked  like  he  couldn't  wait  for  the  weddin'  day,  and 

199 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

everybody  said  they  was  made  for  each  other.  To  be 
sure,  Harvey  was  'most  a  stranger  in  the  neighborhood, 
havin'  moved  in  about  a  year  and  a  half  before,  and  we 
couldn't  know  him  like  we  did  the  Goshen  boys  that'd 
been  born  and  brought  up  there.  But  nobody  could 
say  a  word  against  him.  His  family  down  in  Tennessee, 
jest  beyond  the  state  line,  was  as  good  people  as  ever 
lived,  and  Harvey  himself  was  industrious  and  steady, 
and  as  fine  lookin'  a  man  as  you'd  see  in  a  week's 
journey.  Everybody  said  they  never  saw  a  handsomer 
couple  than  Harvey  and  Mary  Andrews. 

"Mary  was  a  tall,  proud-lookin'  girl,  always  carried 
herself  like  a  queen,  and  hadn't  a  favor  to  ask  of  any 
body;  and  Harvey  was  half  a  head  taller,  and  jest  her 
opposite  in  color.  She  was  dark  and  he  was  light. 
They  was  a  fine  sight  standin'  up  before  the  preacher 
that  day,  and  everybody  was  wishin'  'em  good  luck, 
though  it  looked  like  they  had  enough  already;  both 
of  'em  young  and  healthy  and  happy  and  good-lookin', 
and  Harvey  didn't  owe  a  cent  on  his  farm,  and  Mary's 
father  had  furnished  the  house  complete  for  her.  The 
weddin'  come  off  at  four  o'clock  in  the  evenin',  and 
we  all  stayed  to  supper,  and  after  supper  Harvey  and 
Mary  drove  over  to  their  new  home.  I  ricollect  how 

200 


MARY    ANDREWS'    DINNER-PARTY 

Mary  looked  hack  over  her  shoulder  and  laughed  at  us 
standin'  on  the  steps  and  wavin'  at  her  and  hollerin' 
'good-bye.' 

"It  was  the  fashion  in  that  day  for  all  the  neighbors 
to  entertain  a  newly  married  couple.  Some  would 
invite  'em  to  dinner,  and  some  to  supper,  and  then  the 
bride  and  groom  would  have  to  do  the  same  for  the 
neighbors,  and  then  the  honeymoon'd  be  over,  and 
they'd  settle  down  and  go  to  work  like  ordinary  folks. 
We  had  Harvey  and  Mary  over  to  dinner,  and  they 
asked  us  to  supper.  I  ricollect  how  nice  the  table 
looked  with  Mary's  new  blue  and  white  china  and  some 
o'  the  old-fashioned  silver  that'd  been  in  the  family  for 
generations.  And  the  supper  matched  the  table,  for 
Mary  wasn't  the  kind  that  expects  company  to  satisfy 
their  hunger  by  lookin'  at  china  and  silver.  She  was  a 
fine  cook  like  her  mother  before  her.  Amos  and  Marthy 
Matthews  had  been  invited,  too,  and  we  had  a  real 
pleasant  time  laughin'  and  jokiri'  like  folks  always  do 
about  young  married  people.  After  supper  we  all  went 
out  on  the  porch,  and  Mary  whispered  to  me  and  Marthy 
to  conic  and  sec  her  china  closet  and  pantry.  You 
know  how  proud  a  young  housekeeper  is  of  such  things. 
She  showed  us  all  through  the  back  part  o'  the  house, 

201 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

and  we  praised  everything  and  told  her  it  looked  like  old 
experienced  housekeepin'  instead  of  a  bride's. 

"Well,  when  we  went  back  to  the  dinin'-room  on  our 
way  to  the  porch,  if  there  wasn't  Harvey  bendin'  over 
the  table  countin'  the  silver  teaspoons!  A  man  always 
looks  out  o'  place  doin'  such  things,  and  I  saw  Mary's 
face  turn  red  to  the  roots  of  her  hair.  But  nobody  said 
anything,  and  we  passed  on  through  and  left  Harvey 
still  countin'.  It  was  a  little  thing,  but  I  couldn't  help 
thinkin'  how  queer  it  wras  for  a  man  that  hadn't  been 
married  two  weeks  to  leave  his  company  and  go  back 
to  the  table  to  count  spoons,  and  I  asked  myself  how 
I'd  'a'  felt  if  I'd  found  Abram  countin'  spoons  durin' 
the  honeymoon. 

"Did  you  ever  take  a  walk,  child,  some  cloudy  night 
when  everything's  covered  up  by  the  darkness,  and  all 
at  once  there'll  be  a  flash  o'  lightnin'  showin'  up  every 
thing  jest  for  a  second  ?  Well,  that's  the  way  it  is  with 
people's  lives.  Near  as  Harvey  and  Mary  lived  to  me, 
and  friendly  as  we  were,  I  couldn't  tell  what  \vas  hap- 
penin'  between  'em.  But  every  now  and  then,  as  the 
months  went  by,  and  the  years,  I'd  see  or  hear  some- 
thin'  that  was  like  a  flash  of  light  in  a  dark  place. 
Sometimes  it  was  jest  a  look,  but  there's  mighty  little  a 

202 


MARY    ANDREWS'    DINNER-PARTY 

look  can't  tell;  and  as  for  actions,  you  know  they  speak 
louder  than  words.  I  ricollect  one  Sunday  Harvey  and 
Mary  was  walkin'  ahead  o'  me  and  Abram.  There 
was  a  rough  piece  o'  road  jest  in  front  of  the  church, 
and  I  heard  Harvey  say:  'Don't  walk  there,  come  over 
on  the  side  where  it's  smooth.' 

"I  reckon  Mary  thought  that  Harvey  was  thinkin'  of 
her  feet,  for  she  stepped  over  to  the  side  of  the  road 
right  at  once  and  says  he,  'Don't  you  know  them 
stones'll  wear  out  your  shoes  quicker 'n  anything?' 
And,  bless  your  life,  if  Mary  didn't  go  right  back  to  the 
middle  of  the  road,  and  she  took  particular  pains  to 
walk  on  the  stones  as  far  as  they  went.  It  was  a  little 
thing,  to  be  sure,  but  it  showed  that  Harvey  was  thinkin' 
more  of  his  wife's  shoes  than  he  was  of  her  feet,  and 
that  ain't  a  little  thing  to  a  woman. 

"Then,  again,  there  was  the  time  when  me  and 
Abram  was  passin'  Harvey's  place  one  evenin',  and  a 
storm  was  comin'  up,  and  we  stopped  in  to  keep  from 
gittin'  wet.  Mary  had  been  to  town  that  day,  and  she 
had  on  her  best  dress.  She  was  a  woman  that  looked 
well  in  anything  she  put  on.  Plain  clothes  couldn't 
make  her  look  plain,  and  she  set  off  fine  clothes  as 
much  as  they  set  her  off.  Me  and  Abram  took  scats  on 

203 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

the  porch,  and  Mary  went  into  the  hall  to  git  another 
chair.  I  heard  the  back  hall  door  open  and  somebody 
come  in,  and  then  I  heard  Harvey's  voice.  Says  he, 
'Go  up-stairs  and  take  off  that  dress.'  Says  he, 
'What's  the  use  of  wearin'  out  your  best  clothes  here  at 
home?'  But  before  he  got  the  last  words  out,  Mary 
was  on  the  porch  with  the  chair  in  her  hand,  talkin'  to 
us  about  her  trip  to  town,  and  lookin'  as  unconcerned 
as  if  she  hadn't  heard  or  seen  Harvey.  That  night  I 
says  to  Abram,  says  I,  'Abram,  did  you  ever  have  any 
cause  to  think  that  Harvey  Andrews  was  a  close  man  ? ' 

"Abram  thought  a  minute,  and,  says  he,  'Why,  no; 
I  can't  say  I  ever  did.  What  put  such  a  notion  into 
your  head,  Jane  ?  Harvey  looks  after  his  own  inter 
ests  in  a  trade,  but  he's  as  liberal  a  giver  as  there  is 
in  Goshen  church.  Besides,'  says  Abram,  'who  ever 
heard  of  a  tall,  personable  man  like  Harvey  bein'  close  ? 
Stingy  people's  always  dried  up  and  shriveled  lookin'.' 

"But  I'd  made  up  my  mind  what  the  trouble  was 
between  Harvey  and  Mary,  and  nothin'  that  Abram 
said  could  change  it.  I  don't  reckon  any  man  knows 
how  women  feel  about  stinginess  and  closeness  in  their 
husbands.  I  believe  most  wromen'd  rather  live  with  a 
man  that'd  killed  somebody  than  one  that  was  stingy. 

204 


MARY    ANDREWS'    DINNER-PARTY 

And  then  Mary  never  was  used  to  anything  of  that 
kind,  for  her  father,  old  man  Jerry  Crawford,  was  one 
o'  the  freest-handed  men  in  the  county.  It  was  'Come 
in  and  make  yourself  at  home'  with  everybody  that 
darkened  his  door,  and  for  a  woman,  raised  like  Mary 
was,  havin'  to  live  witli  a  man  like  Harvey  was  about 
the  hardest  thing  that  could  'a'  happened  to  her.  How 
ever,  she  had  the  Crawford  pride,  and  she  carried  her 
head  high  and  laughed  and  smiled  as  much  as  ever;  but 
there's  a  look  that  tells  plain  enough  whether  a  woman's 
married  to  a  man  or  whether  she's  jest  tied  to  him  and 
stayin'  with  him  because  she  can't  get  free;  and  when 
Mary  wasn't  laughin'  or  smilin'  I  could  tell  by  her  face 
that  she  wasn't  as  happy  as  we  all  thought  she  was  goin' 
to  be  the  day  she  married  Harvey." 

Aunt  Jane  paused  a  moment  to  pick  up  a  dropped 
stitch. 

"It's  a  good  thing  you  had  your  dinner,  honey,  before 
I  started  this  yarn,"  she  said,  looking  at  me  qui/zically 
over  her  glasses,  "for  I'll  be  a  long  time  bringin'  you  to 
the  dinner-party.  But  I've  got  to  tell  you  all  this  rig 
marole  first,  so  you'll  understand  what's  comin'.  If  I 
was  to  tell  you  about  the  dinner-party  first  you'd  get 
a  wrong  idea  about  Mary.  That's  how  folks  misjudges 

20,3 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

one  another.  They  see  people  doin'  things  that  ain't 
right,  and  they  up  and  conclude  they're  bad  people, 
when  if  they  only  knew  somethin'  about  their  lives, 
they'd  understand  how  to  make  allowance  for  'em. 
You've  got  to  know  a  heap  about  people's  lives,  child, 
before  you  can  judge  'em. 

"Well,  along  about  this  time,  somewhere  in  the  'GO's, 
I  reckon  it  must  'a'  been,  there  was  a  big  excitement 
about  politics.  I  can't  somehow  ricollect  what  it  was 
all  about,  but  they  had  speakin's  everywhere,  and  the 
men  couldn't  talk  about  anything  but  politics  from 
mornin'  till  night.  Abram  was  goin'  in  to  town  every 
wreek  to  some  meetin'  or  speakin';  and  finally  they  had 
a  big  rally  and  a  barbecue  at  Goshcn.  One  of  the 
speakers  was  Judge  McGowan,  from  Tennessee,  and  he 
was  a  cousin  of  Harvey  Andrews  on  his  mother's  side." 

Here  Aunt  Jane  paused  again. 

"I  wish  I  could  ricollect  what  it  was  all  about,"  she 
said  musingly.  "Must  'a'  been  something  mighty  im 
portant,  but  it's  slipped  my  memory,  sure.  I  do  ricol 
lect,  though,  hearin'  Sam  Amos  say  to  old  Squire 
Bentham,  'What's  the  matter,  anyhow?  Ain't  Ken 
tucky  politicians  got  enough  gift  o'  gab,  without  sendin' 
down  to  Tennessee  to  git  somebody  to  help  you  out?' 

206 


MARY    ANDREWS'    DINNER-PARTY 

"And  the  old  Squire  laughed  fit  to  kill;  and  says  he, 
'It's  all  on  your  account,  Sam.  We  heard  you  was 
against  us,  and  we  knew  there  wasn't  an  orator  in  Ken 
tucky  that  could  make  you  change  your  mind.  So 
we've  sent  down  to  Tennessee  for  Judge  McGowan, 
and  we're  relyin'  on  him  to  bring  you  over  to  our  side.' 
And  that  like  to  'a'  tickled  Sam  to  death. 

"Well,  when  Harvey  heard  his  cousin  was  to  be  one 
o'  the  big  men  at  the  speakin',  he  was  mighty  proud, 
as  anybody  would  'a'  been,  and  nothin'  would  do  but  he 
must  have  Judge  McGowan  to  eat  dinner  at  his  house. 

"Some  of  the  men  objected  to  this,  and  said  the 
speakers  ought  to  eat  at  the  barbecue.  But  Harvey 
said  that  blood  was  thicker  than  water  with  him,  and 
no  cousin  o'  his  could  come  to  Goshen  and  go  away 
without  eatin'  a  meal  at  his  house.  So  it  was  fixed  up 
that  everybody  else  was  to  eat  at  the  barbecue,  and 
Harvey  was  to  take  Judge  McGowan  over  to  his  house 
to  a  family  dinner-party. 

"I  dropped  in  to  sec  Mary  two  or  three  days  before 
the  speakin',  and  when  I  was  leavin',  I  said,  'Mary,  if 
there's  anything  I  can  do  to  help  you  about  your  dinner 
party,  jest  let  me  know.'  And  she  said,  'There  ain't  a 
thing  to  do;  Harvey's  been  to  town  and  bought  cvery- 

207 


AUNT   JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

thing  he  could  think  of  in  the  way  of  groceries,  and 
Jane  Ann's  comin'  over  to  cook  the  dinner;  but  thank 
you,  all  the  same.' 

"I  thought  Mary  looked  pleased  and  satisfied,  and 
I  says,  'Well,  with  everything  to  cook  and  Jane  Ann  to 
cook  it,  there  won't  be  anything  lackin'  about  that 
dinner.'  And  Mary  laughed,  and  says  she,  'You  know 
I'm  my  father's  ow-n  child.' 

"Old  Jerry  used  to  say,  "Tain't  no  visit  unless  you 
waller  a  bed  and  empty  a  plate.'  They  used  tell 
it  that  Aunt  Maria,  the  cook,  never  had  a  chance  to 
clean  up  the  kitchen  between  meals,  and  the  neighbors 
all  called  Jerry's  house  the  free  tavern.  I've  heard 
folks  laugh  many  a  time  over  the  children  recitin'  the 
Ten  Commandments  Sunday  evenin's,  and  Jerry  would 
holler  at  'em  when  they  got  through  and  say: 

"The  'leventh  commandment  for  Kentuckians  is, 
"Be  not  forgetful  to  entertain  strangers,"  and  never 
mind  about  'em  turnin'  out  to  be  angels.  Plain  folks  is 
good  enough  for  me.' 

"Here  I  am  strayin'  off  from  the  dinner,  jest  like  I 
always  do  when  I  set  out  to  tell  anything  or  go  any 
where.  Abram  used  to  say  that  if  I  started  to  the 
spring-house,  I'd  go  by  way  o'  the  front  porch  and  the 

208 


MARY    ANDREWS'    DINNER-PARTY 

front  yard  and  the  hack  porch  and  the  back  yard  and 
the  flower  gyarden  and  the  vegetable  gyardcn  to  git 
there. 

"Well,  the  day  come,  and  Judge  McGowan  made  a 
fine  speech,  and  Harvey  carried  him  off  in  his  new 
buggy,  as  proud  as  a  peacock.  I  ricollect  when  I  set 
down  to  my  table  that  day  I  said  to  myself:  'I  know 
Judge  McGowan's  havin'  a  dinner  to-day  that'll  make 
him  remember  Kentucky  as  long  as  he  lives.'  And  it 
wasn't  till  years  afterwards  that  I  heard  the  truth  about 
that  dinner.  Jane  Ann  herself  told  me,  and  I  don't 
believe  she  ever  told  anybody  else.  Jane  Ann  was 
crippled  for  a  year  or  more  before  she  died,  and  the 
neighbors  had  to  do  a  good  deal  of  nursin'  and  waitin' 
on  her.  I  was  makin'  her  a  cup  o'  tea  one  day,  and 
the  kittle  was  bubblin'  and  singin',  and  she  begun  to 
laugh,  and  says  she,  'Jane,  do  you  hear  that  sparrer 
chirpin'  in  the  peach  tree  there  by  the  window?'  Says 
she,  'I  never  hear  a  sparrer  chirpin'  and  a  kittle  b'ilin', 
that  I  don't  think  o'  the  dinner  Mary  Andrews  had  the 
day  Judge  McGowan  spoke  at  the  big  barbecue.' 
Says  she,  'Mary's  dead,  and  Harvey's  dead,  and  I 
reckon  there  ain't  any  harm  in  speakin'  of  it  now.' 
And  then  she  told  me  the  story  I'm  tellin'  you. 

209 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

"She  said  she  went  over  that  mornin'  bright  and 
early,  and  there  was  Mary  sittin'  on  the  back  porch, 
sewin'.  The  house  was  all  cleaned  up,  and  there  was 
a  big  panful  o'  greens  on  the  kitchen  table,  but  not  a 
sign  of  a  company  dinner  anywhere  in  sight.  Jane 
Ann  said  Mary  spoke  up  as  bright  and  pleasant  as  pos 
sible,  and  told  her  to  set  down  and  rest  herself,  and  she 
went  on  sewin',  and  they  talked  about  this  and  that  for 
a  while,  and  finally  Jane  Ann  rolled  up  her  sleeves,  and 
says  she,  'I'm  a  pretty  fast  worker,  Mis'  Andrews,  but 
a  company  dinner  ain't  any  small  matter;  don't  you 
think  it's  time  to  begin  work?' 

"And  Mary  jest  smiled  and  said  in  her  easy  way, 
'No,  Jane  Ann,  there's  not  much  to  do.  It  won't  take 
long  for  the  greens  to  cook,  and  I  want  you  to  make 
some  of  your  good  corn  bread  to  go  with  'em.'  And 
then  she  went  on  sewin'  and  talkin',  and  all  Jane  Ann 
could  do  was  to  set  there  and  listen  and  wonder  what 
it  all  meant. 

"Finally  the  clock  struck  eleven,  and  Mary  rolled  up 
her  work,  and  says  she,  'You'd  better  make  up  your 
fire  now,  Jane  Ann,  and  I'll  set  the  table.  Harvey  likes 
an  early  dinner.' 

"  Jane  Ann  said  she  expected  to  see  Mary  get  out  the 
210 


MARY   ANDREWS'    DINNER-PARTY 

best  china  and  silver  and  the  finest  tablecloth  and 
napkins  she  had,  but  instead  o'  that  she  put  on  jest 
plain,  everyday  things.  Everything  was  clean  and 
nice,  but  it  wasn't  the  way  to  set  the  table  for  a  com 
pany  dinner,  and  nobody  knew  that  better  than  Mary 
Andrews. 

"Jane  Ann  said  she  saw  a  ham  and  plenty  o'  vege 
tables  and  eggs  in  the  pantry,  and  she  could  hardly  keep 
her  hands  off  'em,  and  she  did  smuggle  some  potatoes 
into  the  stove  after  she  got  her  greens  washed  and  her 
meal  scalded.  She  said  she  knew  somethin'  was  wrong, 
but  all  she  could  do  was  to  hold  her  tongue  and  do  her 
wrork.  That  was  Jane  Ann's  way.  When  Mary  got 
through  settin'  the  table,  she  went  up-stairs  and  put  on 
her  best  dress.  Trouble  hadn't  pulled  her  down  a  bit; 
and,  if  anything,  she  was  handsomer  than  she  was  the 
day  she  married.  I  reckon  it  was  her  spirit  that  kept 
her  from  breakin'  and  growin'  old  before  her  time. 
Jane  Ann  said  she  come  down-stairs,  her  eyes  sparklin' 
like  a  girl's  and  a  bright  color  in  her  cheeks,  and  she 
had  on  a  flowered  muslin  dress,  white  ground  with 
sprigs  o'  lilac  all  over  it,  and  lace  in  the  neck,  and  angel 
sleeves  that  showed  off  her  arms,  and  her  hair  was 
twisted  high  up  on  her  head,  and  a  big  tortoise-shell 

211 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

comb  in  it.  Jane  Ann  said  she  looked  as  pretty  as  a 
picture;  and  jest  as  she  come  down  the  stairs,  Harvey 
drove  up  with  Judge  McGowan,  and  Mary  walked  out 
to  give  him  a  welcome,  while  Harvey  put  away  the 
buggy.  Nobody  had  pleasanter  ways  than  Mary  An 
drews.  She  always  had  somethin'  to  say,  and  it  was 
always  the  right  thing  to  be  said,  and  in  a  minute  her 
and  the  old  judge  was  laughin'  like  they'd  known  each 
other  all  their  lives,  and  he  had  the  children  on  his 
knees  trottin'  'em  and  tellin'  'em  about  his  little  girl 
and  boy  at  home. 

"Jane  Ann  said  her  greens  was  about  done  and  she 
started  to  put  on  the  corn  bread,  but  somethin'  held  her 
back.  She  knew  corn  bread  and  greens  wasn't  a  fit 
dinner  for  a  stranger  that  had  been  invited  there,  but 
of  course  she  couldn't  do  anything  without  orders,  and 
she  was  standin'  over  the  stove  waitin'  and  wonderin', 
when  Harvey,  man-like,  walked  in  to  see  how  dinner 
was  gettin'  on.  Jane  Ann  said  he  looked  at  the  pot  o' 
greens  and  the  pan  of  corn  bread  batter,  and  he  went 
into  the  dinin'-room  and  saw  the  table  all  clean,  but 
nothin'  on  it  beyond  the  ordinary,  and  his  face  looked 
like  a  thunder-cloud.  And  jest  then  Mary  come  in  all 
smilin',  and  the  prettiest  color  in  her  checks,  and 

212 


MARY    ANDREWS'    DINNER-PARTY 

Harvey  wheeled  .around  and  says  he,  'What  does  this 
mean  ?  Where's  the  ham  I  told  you  to  eook  and  all 
the  rest  o'  the  things  I  bought  for  this  dinner  ? 5 

"Jane  Ann  said  the  way  he  spoke  and  the  look  in  his 
eyes  would  'a'  frightened  most  any  woman  but  Mary; 
she  wasn't  the  kind  to  be  frightened.  Jane  Ann  said 
she  stood  up  straight,  with  her  head  thrown  back  and 
still  smilin',  and  her  voice  was  as  clear  and  sweet  as  if 
she'd  been  savin'  somethin'  pleasant.  And  she  looked 
Harvey  straight  in  the  eyes,  and  says  she,  'It  means, 
Harvey,  that  what's  good  enough  for  us  is  good  enough 
for  your  kin.'  Jane  Ann  said  that  Harvey  looked  at  her 
a  second  as  if  he  didn't  understand,  and  then  he  give 
a  start  as  if  he  ricollected  somethin',  and  it  looked  like 
all  the  blood  in  his  body  rushed  to  his  face,  and  he 
lifted  one  hand  and  opened  his  mouth  like  he  was  goin' 
to  speak.  There  they  stood,  lookin'  at  each  other,  and 
Jane  Ann  said  she  never  saw  such  a  look  pass  between 
husband  and  wife  before  or  since.  If  either  of  'em  had 
dropped  dead,  she  said,  it  wouldn't  'a'  seemed  strange. 

"Honey,  I  read  a  story  once  about  two  men  that  had 
quarreled,  and  one  of  'em  picked  up  a  little  rock  and 
put  it  in  his  pocket,  and  for  eight  years  he  carried  that 
rock,  and  once  a  year  he'd  turn  it  over.  And  at  last, 

213 


AUNT   JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

one  day  he  met  the  man  he  hated,  and  he  took  out  the 
rock  he'd  been  carryin'  so  long,  and  threw  it  at  him, 
and  it  struck  him  dead.  Now  I  know  as  well  as  if 
Mary  Andrews  had  told  me,  that  Harvey  had  said  them 
very  same  words  to  her  years  before,  and  she'd  carried 
'em  in  her  heart,  jest  like  the  man  carried  the  stone  in 
his  pocket,  waitin'  till  she  could  throw  'em  back  at  him 
and  hurt  him  as  much  as  he  hurt  her.  It  wasn't  right 
nor  Christian.  But  knowin'  Mary  Andrews  as  I  did, 
I  never  had  a  word  o'  blame  for  her.  There  never  was 
a  better-hearted  woman  than  Mary,  and  I  always 
thought  she  must  'a'  gone  through  a  heap  to  make  her 
say  such  a  thing  to  Harvey. 

"Jane  Ann  said  that  when  she  worked  at  a  place  she 
always  tried  to  be  blind  and  deaf  so  far  as  family  matters 
was  concerned,  and  she  knew  that  she  had  no  business 
seein'  or  hearin'  anything  that  went  on  between  Harvey 
and  Mary,  but  there  they  stood,  facin'  each  other,  and 
she  could  hear  a  sparrer  chirpin'  outside,  and  the  tea- 
kittle  b'ilin'  on  the  stove,  while  she  stood  watchin'  'em, 
feelin'  like  she  was  charmed  by  a  snake.  She  said  the 
look  in  Mary's  eyes  and  the  way  she  smiled  made  her 
blood  run  cold.  And  Harvey  couldn't  stand  it.  He 
had  to  give  in. 

214 


MARY   ANDREWS'    DINNER-PARTY 

"Jane  Ann  said  his  hand  dropped,  and  he  turned 
and  walked  out  o'  the  house  and  down  towards  the 
barn.  Mary  watched  him  till  he  was  out  o'  sight,  and 
then  she  went  hack  to  the  front  porch,  and  the  next 
minute  she  was  laughin'  and  talkin'  with  Harvey's 
cousin  as  if  nothin'  had  happened. 

"Well,  for  the  next  half  hour  Jane  Ann  said  she  made 
her  two  hands  do  the  work  of  four,  and  when  she  put 
the  dinner  on  the  table  it  was  nothin'  to  be  ashamed  of. 
She  sliced  some  ham  and  fried  it,  and  made  coffee  and 
soda  biscuits,  and  poached  some  eggs;  and  when  they 
set  down  to  the  table,  and  the  old  judge'd  said  grace, 
he  looked  around,  and,  says  he:  'How  did  you  know, 
cousin,  that  jowl  and  greens  was  my  favorite  dish?' 
And  while  they  was  eatin'  the  first  course,  Jane  Ann 
made  up  pie-crust  and  had  a  blackberry  pie  ready  by 
the  time  they  was  ready  to  eat  it.  The  old  judge  was 
a  plain  man  and  a  hearty  eater,  and  everything  pleased 
him. 

"When  they  first  set  down,  Mary  says,  says  she: 
'You'll  have  to  excuse  Harvey,  Cousin  Samuel;  he  had 
some  farm-work  to  attend  to  and  won't  be  in  for  some 
little  time.' 

"And  the  old  judge  bows  and  smiles  across  the  table, 
215 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

and,  says  he,  'I  hadn't  missed  Harvey,  and  ain't  likely 
to  miss  him  when  I'm  talkin'  to  Harvey's  wife.' 

"Jane  Ann  said  she  never  saw  a  meal  pass  off  better, 
and  when  she  looked  at  Mary  jokin'  and  smilin'  with 
the  judge  and  waitin'  on  the  children  so  kind  and 
thoughtful,  she  could  hardly  believe  it  \vas  the  same 
woman  that  had  stood  there  a  few  minutes  before  with 
that  aw7ful  smile  on  her  face  and  looked  her  husband  in 
the  eyes  till  she  looked  him  down.  She  said  she  ex 
pected  Harvey  to  step  in  any  minute,  and  she  kept 
things  hot  while  she  was  washin'  up  the  dishes.  But 
two  o'clock  come  and  half-past  two,  and  still  no  Har 
vey.  And  pretty  soon  here  come  Mary  out  to  the 
kitchen,  and  says  she: 

"I'm  goin'  to  drive  the  judge  to  town,  Jane  Ann. 
And  when  you  get  through  cleanin'  up,  jest  close  the 
house,  and  your  money's  on  the  mantelpiece  in  the 
dinin'-room.'  Then  she  went  out  in  the  direction  of 
the  stable,  and  in  a  few  minutes  come  drivin'  back  in 
the  buggy.  Jane  Ann  said  the  horse  couldn't  'a'  been 
unharnessed  at  all.  Her  and  the  judge  got  in  with  the 
two  children  down  in  front,  and  they  drove  off  to  catch 
the  four-o'clock  train. 

"Jane  Ann  said  she  straightened  everything  up  in 
216 


MARY   ANDREWS'    DINNER-PARTY 

the  kitchen  and  dinin'-room,  and  shut  up  the  house, 
and  then  she  went  out  in  the  yard  and  walked  down  in 
the  direction  of  the  stable,  and  there  was  Harvey, 
standin'  in  the  stable-yard.  She  said  his  face  was 
turned  away  from  her,  and  she  was  glad  it  was,  for  it 
scared  her  jest  to  look  at  his  back.  He  was  standin'  as 
still  as  a  statue,  his  arms  hangin'  down  by  his  sides  and 
both  hands  clenched,  and  it  looked  like  he'd  made  up 
his  mind  to  stand  there  till  Judgment  Day.  Jane  Ann 
said  she  wondered  many  a  time  how  long  he  stayed 
there,  and  whether  he  ever  did  come  to  the  house. 

"I  ricollect  howr  everybody  wras  talkin'  about  the 
speakin'  that  day.  Abram  come  home  from  the 
barbecue,  and,  says  he,  'Jane,  I  haven't  heard  such  a 
speech  as  that  since  the  days  of  old  Humphrey  Marshall: 
and  as  for  the  barbecue,  all  it  needed  was  Judge 
McCiowan  to  set  at  the  head  o'  the  table.  But  then,' 
says  he,  'I  reckon  it  was  natural  for  Harvey  to  want  to 
take  his  cousin  home  with  him.' 

"That  was  about  four  o'clock,  and  it  wasn't  more 
than  two  hours  till  we  heard  a  horse  gallopin'  way  up 
the  pike.  I'd  jest  washed  the  supper  dishes,  arid  me 
and  Abram  was  out  on  the  back  porch,  and  I  had  the 
baby  in  my  arms.  There  was  somethin'  in  the  sound 

217 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

o'  the  horse's  hoofs  that  told  me  he  was  carryin'  had 
news,  and  I  jumped  up,  and  says  I,  'Abram,  some 
awful  thing  has  happened.'  And  he  says,  'Jane,  are 
you  crazy?'  I  could  hear  the  sound  o'  the  gallopin' 
comin'  nearer  and  nearer,  and  I  rushed  out  to  the  front 
gate  with  Abram  follerin'  after  me.  "NVe  looked  up  the 
road,  and  there  was  Sam  Amos  gallopin'  like  mad  on 
that  young  bay  mare  of  his.  The  minute  he  saw  us  he 
hollered  out  to  Abram :  '  Git  ready  as  quick  as  you 
can,  and  go  to  town!  Harvey  Andrews  has  had  an 
apoplectic  stroke,  and  I  want  you  to  bring  the  under 
taker  out  here  right  away.' 

"I  turned  around  to  say,  'What  did  I  tell  you  ?'  But 
before  I  could  git  the  words  out,  Abram  Avas  off  to 
saddle  and  bridle  old  Moll.  That  was  always  Abram 's 
way.  If  there  was  anything  to  be  done,  he  did  it,  and 
the  talkin'  and  questionin'  come  afterwards. 

"Sam  stopped  at  the  gate  and  got  off  a  minute  to  give 
his  horse  a  breathin'  spell.  He  said  he  was  passin' 
Harvey's  place  about  five  o'clock  and  he  heard  a  child 
screamin'.  'At  first,'  says  he,  'I  didn't  pay  any  atten 
tion  to  it,  I'm  so  used  to  hearin'  children  holler.  But 
after  I  got  past  the  house  I  kept  hearin'  the  child,  and 
somethin'  told  me  to  turn  back  and  find  out  what  was 

218 


MARY    ANDREWS'    DINNER-PARTY 

the  matter.  I  went  in,'  said  he,  'and  follered  the  sound 
till  I  come  to  the  stable-yard,  and  there  was  Harvey, 
lyin'  on  the  ground  stone  dead,  and  Mary  standin'  over 
him  lookin'  like  a  crazy  woman,  and  the  children,  pore 
little  things,  screamin'  and  crvin'  and  scared  half  to 

O  */ 

death.' 

"The  horse  and  buggy  was  standin'  there,  and  Mary 
must  'a'  found  the  body  when  she  come  back  from 
town. 

"'I  got  her  and  the  children  to  the  house,'  says  he; 
'and  then  I  started  out  to  get  some  person  to  help  me 
move  the  body,  and,  as  luck  would  have  it,'  says  he,  'I 
met  the  Cra\vford  boys  comin'  from  town,  and  between 
us  we  managed  to  get  the  corpse  up  to  the  house  and 
laid  it  on  the  big  settee  in  the  front  hall.  And  now,' 
says  he,  'I'm  goin'  after  Uncle  Jim  Matthews;  and  me 
and  him  and  the  Crawford  boys '11  lay  the  body  out 
when  the  undertaker  comes.  And  Marthy  Matthews 
will  have  to  come  over  and  stay  all  night. 

"Says  I,   'Sam,  how  is  Mary  bearin'  it?' 

"He  shook  his  head,  and  says  he,  'The  worst  way 
in  the  world.  She  hasn't  shed  a  tear  nor  spoke  a 
word,  and  she  don't  seem  to  notice  anything,  not 
even  the  children.  But,'  says  he,  'I  can't  stand  here 

219 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

talkin'.  There's  a  heap  to  be  done  yet,  and  Milly's 
lookin'  for  me  now.' 

"And  with  that  he  got  on  his  horse  and  rode  off,  and 
I  went  into  the  house  to  put  the  children  to  bed.  Then 
I  set  down  on  the  porch  steps  to  wait  for  Abram.  The 
sun  was  down  by  this  time,  and  there  was  a  new 
moon  in  the  west,  and  it  didn't  seem  like  there  could 
be  any  sorrow  and  sufferin'  in  such  a  quiet,  happy, 
peaceful-lookin'  world.  But  there  was  poor  Alary  not 
a  mile  away,  and  I  set  and  grieved  over  her  in  her 
trouble  jest  like  it  had  been  my  own.  I  didn't  know 
what  had  happened  that  day  between  Harvey  and  Mary. 
But  I  knew  that  Harvey  had  been  struck  down  in  the 
prime  o'  life,  and  that  Mary  had  found  his  dead  body, 
and  that  was  terrible  enough.  From  what  I'd  seen  o' 
their  married  life  I  knew  that  Mary's  loss  wasn't  what 
mine  would  'a'  been  if  Abram  had  dropped  dead  that 
day  instead  o'  Harvey,  but  a  man  and  woman  can't  live 
together  as  husband  and  wife  and  father  and  mother 
without  growin'  to  each  other;  and  whatever  Mary 
hadn't  lost,  she  had  lost  the  father  of  her  children,  and 
I  couldn't  sleep  much  that  night  for  thinkin'  of  her. 

"The  day  of  the  funeral  I  went  over  to  help  Mary 
and  get  her  dressed  in  her  widow's  clothes.  She  was 


MARY    ANDREWS'    DINNER-PARTY 

actin'  queer  and  dazed,  and  nothin'  seemed  to  make 
much  impression  on  her.  I  was  fastenin'  her  crape 
collar  on,  and  she  says  to  me:  'I  reckon  you  think  it's 
strange  I  don't  cry  and  take  on  like  women  do  when 
they  lose  their  husbands.  But,'  says  she,  'you  wouldn't 
blame  me  if  you  knew.' 

"And  then  she  dropped  her  voice  down  to  a  whisper, 
and  says  she,  'You  know  I  married  Harvey  Andrews. 
But  after  I  married  him,  I  found  that  there  wasn't  any 
such  man.  I  haven't  got  any  cause  to  cry,  for  the  man 
I  married  ain't  dead.  He  never  was  alive,  and  so,  of 
course,  he  can't  be  dead.' 

"And  then  she  began  to  laugh;  and  says  she,  'I  don't 
know  which  is  the  worst:  to  be  sorry  when  you  ought  to 
be  glad,  or  glad  when  you  ought  to  be  sorry.' 

"And  I  says,  'Hush,  Mary,  don't  talk  about  it.  I 
know  what  you  mean,  but  other  folks  might  not 
understand.' 

"Mary  ain't  the  only  one,  child,  that's  married  a 
man,  and  then  found  out  that  there  -wasn't  any  such 
man.  I've  looked  at  many  a  bride  and  groom  standin' 
up  before  the  preacher  and  makin'  promises  for  a  life 
time,  and  I've  thought  to  myself,  'You  pore  things, 
you!  All  you  know  about  each  other  is  your  names 

221 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

and  your  faces.  You've  got  all  the  rest  to  find  out,  and 
nobody  knows  what  you'll  find  out  nor  what  you'll  do 
when  you  find  it  out.' 

"Folks  said  it  was  the  saddest  funeral  they  ever  went 
to.  Harvey's  people  all  lived  down  in  Tennessee.  His 
father  and  mother  had  died  long  ago,  and  he  hadn't 
any  near  kin  except  a  brother  and  a  sister;  and  they 
lived  too  far  off  to  come  to  the  funeral  in  time.  Abram 
said  to  me  after  we  got  home:  'Well,  I  never  thought 
I'd  help  to  lay  a  friend  and  neighbor  in  the  ground  and 
not  a  tear  shed  over  him.' 

"If  Mary  had  'a'  cried,  we  could  'a'  cried  with  her. 
But  she  set  at  the  head  o'  the  coffin  with  her  hands 
folded  in  her  lap,  and  her  mind  seemed  to  be  away  off 
from  the  things  that  was  happenin'  around  her.  I  don't 
believe  she  even  heard  the  clods  fallin'  on  the  coffin; 
and  wrhen  we  started  away  from  the  grave  Marthy 
Matthews  leaned  over  and  whispered  to  me:  'Jane, 
don't  Mary  remind  you  of  somebody  walkin'  in  her 
sleep  ? ' 

"Mary's  mother  and  sister  hadn't  been  with  her  in 
her  trouble,  for  they  happened  to  be  down  in  Logan 
visitin'  a  great-uncle.  So  Marthy  and  me  settled  it 
between  us  that  she  was  to  stay  with  Mary  that  night 

222 


MARY   ANDREWS'    DINNER-PARTY 

and  I  was  to  come  over  the  next  mornin'.  You  know 
how  much  there  is  to  be  done  after  a  funeral.  Well, 
bright  and  early  I  went  over,  and  Marthy  met  me  at  the 
gate.  She  was  goin'  out  as  I  was  comin'  in.  Says  she, 
'Go  right  up-stairs;  Mary's  lookin'  for  you.  She's  more 
like  herself  this  mornin';  and  I'm  thankful  for  that.' 

"The  minute  I  stepped  in  the  door  I  heard  Mary's 
voice.  She'd  seen  me  comin'  in  the  gate  and  called  out 
to  me  to  come  up-stairs.  She  was  in  the  front  room,  her 
room  and  Harvey's,  and  the  closet  and  the  bureau 
drawers  was  all  open,  and  things  scattered  around  every 
which  way,  and  Mary  was  down  on  her  knees  in  front 
of  an  old  trunk,  foldin'  up  Harvey's  clothes  and  puttin' 
'em  awTay.  Her  hands  was  shakin',  and  there  was  a  red 
spot  on  each  of  her  cheeks,  and  she  had  a  strange  look 
out  of  her  eyes. 

"I  says  to  her,  'Why,  Mary,  you  ain't  fit  to  be  doin' 
that  work.  You  ought  to  be  in  bed  restin'.'  And  says 
she,  'I  can't  rest  till  I  get  everything  straightened  out. 
Mother  and  sister  Sally  are  comin','  says  she,  'and  I 
want  to  get  everything  in  order  before  they  get  here.' 
And  I  says,  'Now,  Mary,  you  lay  down  on  the  bed  and 
I'll  put  these  things  away.  You  can  watch  me  and  tell 
me  what  to  do,  and  I'll  do  it;  but  you've  got  to  rest.' 

223 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

So  I  shook  everything  out  and  folded  it  up  as  nice  as  I 
could  and  laid  it  away  in  the  trunk,  while  she  watched 
me.  And  once  she  said,  'Don't  have  any  wrinkles  in 
'em.  Harvey  was  always  mighty  particular  about  his 
clothes.' 

"Next  to  layin'  the  body  in  the  ground,  child,  this 
foldin'  up  dead  folks'  clothes  and  puttin'  'em  away  is 
one  o'  the  hardest  things  people  ever  has  to  do.  It's 
jest  like  when  you've  finished  a  book  and  shut  it  up  and 
put  it  away  on  the  shelf.  I  knew  jest  how  Mary  felt, 
when  she  said  she  couldn't  rest  till  everything  was  put 
away.  The  life  she'd  lived  with  Harvey  was  over,  and 
she  was  closin'  up  the  book  and  puttin'  it  out  of  sight 
forever.  Pore  child!  Pore  child! 

"Well,  when  I  got  all  o'  Harvey's  clothes  put  away, 
I  washed  out  the  empty  drawers,  lined  'em  with  clean 
paper  and  laid  some  o'  little  Harvey's  clothes  in  'em, 
and  that  seemed  to  please  Mary.  The  father  was  gone, 
but  there  was  his  son  to  take  his  place.  Then  I  shut  it 
up  tight,  and  Mary  raised  herself  up  out  o'  bed  and  says 
she,  'Take  hold,  Jane,  I'm  goin'  to  take  this  to  the 
attic  right  now.'  And  take  it  we  did,  though  the  trunk 
wras  heavy  and  the  stairs  so  steep  and  narrer  we  had  to 
stop  and  rest  on  every  step.  We  pushed  the  trunk  way 

224 


MARY   ANDREWS'    DINNER-PARTY 

back  under  the  eaves,  and  it  may  be  standin'  there  yet 
for  all  I  know. 

"When  we  got  down-stairs,  Mary  drew  a  long  breath 
like  she'd  got  a  big  load  off  her  mind,  and  says  she, 
'There's  one  more  thing  I  want  you  to  help  me  about, 
and  then  you  can  go  home,  Jane,  and  I'll  go  to  bed  and 
rest.'  She  took  a  key  out  of  her  pocket,  and  says  she, 
'  Jane,  this  is  the  key  to  the  little  cabin  out  in  the  back 
yard.  Harvey  used  to  keep  something  in  there,  but 
what  it  was  I  never  knew.  As  long  as  we  lived  together, 
I  never  saw  inside  of  that  cabin,  but  I'm  goin'  to  see 
it  now.' 

"The  children  started  to  foller  us  when  we  went  out 
on  the  back  porch,  but  Mary  give  'em  some  playthings 
and  told  'em  to  stay  around  in  the  front  yard  till  we 
come  back.  Then  we  Avent  over  to  the  far  corner  of  the 
back  yard  where  the  cabin  was,  under  a  big  old  syca 
more  tree.  I  ricollect  how  the  key  creaked  when  Mary 
turned  it,  and  how  hard  the  door  was  to  open. 

"Mary  started  to  go  in  first,  and  then  she  fell  back, 
and  says  she,  in  a  whisper,  'You  go  in  first,  Jane;  I'm 
afraid.'  So  I  went  in  first  and  Mary  follered.  For  a 
minute  we  couldn't  see  a  thing.  There  was  two  win 
dows  to  the  cabin,  but  they'd  been  boarded  up  from 

225 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

the  outside,  and  there  was  jest  one  big  crack  at  the  top 
of  one  of  the  windows  that  let  in  a  long  streak  of  light, 
and  you  could  see  the  dust  dancin'  in  it.  The  door 
opened  jest  enough  to  let  us  in,  and  we  both  stood  there 
peerin'  around  and  tryin'  to  see  what  sort  of  a  place 
we'd  got  into.  The  first  thing  I  made  out  was  a  heap 
of  old  rusty  iron.  I  started  to  take  a  step,  and  my  foot 
struck  against  it.  There  was  old  bolts  and  screws  and 
horseshoes  and  scraps  of  old  cast  iron  and  nails  of  every 
size,  all  laid  together  in  a  big  heap  The  place  seemed 
to  be  full  of  somethin',  but  I  couldn't  see  what  it  all  was 
till  my  eyes  got  used  to  the  darkness.  There  was  a 
row  of  nails  goin'  all  round  the  wall,  and  old  clothes 
hangin'  on  every  one  of  'em.  And  down  on  the  floor 
there  was  piles  of  old  clothes,  folded  smooth  and  laid 
one  on  top  o'  the  other  jest  like  a  washerwoman  would 
fold  'em  and  pile  'em  up.  Harvey's  old  clothes  and 
Mary's  and  the  children's,  things  that  any  right-minded 
person  would  'a'  put  in  the  rag-bag  or  given  away  to 
anybody  that  could  make  use  of  'em;  there  they  was, 
all  hoarded  up  in  that  old  room  jest  like  they  was  of 
some  value.  And  over  in  one  corner  was  all  the  old 
worn-out  tin  things  that  you  could  think  of:  buckets 
and  pans  and  milk-strainers  and  dippers  and  cups. 

226 


MARY   ANDREWS'    DINNER-PARTY 

And  next  to  them  was  all  the  glass  and  china  that'd 
been  broken  in  the  years  Mary  and  Harvey 'd  been 
keepin'  house.  And  there  was  a  lot  of  old  brooms, 
nothin'  but  stubs,  tied  together  jest  like  new  brooms  in 
the  store.  And  there  was  all  the  children's  broken  toys, 
dolls,  and  doll  dresses,  and  even  some  glass  marbles 
that  little  Harvey  used  to  play  with.  The  dust  was 
lyin'  thick  and  heavy  over  everything,  and  the  spider- 
webs  looked  like  black  strings  hangin'  from  the  ceilin'; 
but  things  of  the  same  sort  was  all  lyin'  together  jest 
like  some  woman  had  put  the  place  in  order. 

"You've  heard  tell  of  that  bird,  child,  that  gathers  up 
all  sorts  o'  rubbish  and  carries  it  off  to  its  nest  and  hides 
it?  Well,  I  thought  about  that  bird;  and  the  heap  of 
old  iron  reminded  me  of  a  little  boy's  pocket  when  you 
turn  it  wrong  side  out  at  night,  and  the  china  and  glass 
and  doll-rags  made  me  think  of  the  playhouses  I  used 

O  1  •/ 

to  make  under  the  trees  when  I  was  a  little  girl.  I've 
seen  many  curious  places,  honey,  but  nothin'  like  that 
old  cabin.  The  moldy  smell  reminded  me  of  the 
grave;  and  when  I  looked  at  all  the  dusty,  old  plunder, 
the  ragged  clothes  hangin'  against  the  wall  like  so  many 
ghosts,  and  then  thought  of  the  dead  man  that  had  put 
'em  there,  I  tell  you  it  made  my  flesh  creep. 

227 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

"Well,  we  stood  there,  me  and  Mary,  strainin'  our 
eyes  tryin'  to  see  into  the  dark  corners,  and  all  at  once 
the  meanin'  of  it  come  over  me  like  a  flash:  Harvey  was 
a  miser!" 

Aunt  Jane  stopped,  took  off  her  glasses  and  polished 
them  on  the  hem  of  her  gingham  apron.  I  sat  holding 
my  breath;  but,  all  regardless  of  my  suspense,  she 
dropped  the  thread  of  the  story  and  followed  memory 
in  one  of  her  capricious  backward  flights. 

"I  ricollect  a  sermon  I  heard  when  I  was  a  gyirl," 
she  said.  "It  ain't  often,  I  reckon,  that  a  sermon 
makes  much  impression  on  a  gyirl's  mind.  But  this 
wasn't  any  ordinary  sermon  or  any  ordinary  preacher. 
Presbytery  met  in  town  that  year,  and  all  the  big 
preachers  in  the  state  was  there.  Some  of  'em  come 
out  and  preached  to  the  country  churches,  and  old  Dr. 
Samuel  Chalmers  Morse  preached  at  Goshen.  He  was 
one  o'  the  biggest  men  in  the  Presbytery,  and  I  ricol 
lect  his  looks  as  plain  as  I  ricollect  his  sermon.  Some 
preachers  look  jest  like  other  men,  and  you.  can  tell  the 
minute  you  set  eyes  on  'em  that  they  ain't  any  wiser  or 
any  better  than  common  folks.  But  Dr.  Morse  wasn't 
that  kind. 

"You  know  the  Bible  tells  about  people  walkin'  with 
228 


MARY    ANDREWS'    DINNER-PARTY 

God  and  talkin'  with  God.  It  says  Enoch  walked 
with  God  and  Adam  talked  with  Him.  Some  folks 
might  find  that  hard  to  believe,  but  it  seems  jest  as 
natural  to  me.  Why  many  a  time  I've  been  in  my 
gyarden  when  the  sun's  gone  down,  and  it  ain't  quite 
time  for  the  moon  to  come  up,  and  the  dew's  fallin' 
and  the  flowers  smellin'  sweet,  and  I've  set  down 
in  the  summer-house  and  looked  up  at  the  stars; 
and  if  I'd  heard  a  voice  from  heaven  it  wouldn't 
'a'  been  a  bit  stranger  to  me  than  the  blowin'  of  the 
wind. 

"The  minute  I  saw  Dr.  Morse  I  thought  about 
Adam  and  Enoch,  and  I  said  to  myself,  'He  looks 
like  a  man  that's  walked  with  God  and  talked  with 
God.' 

"I  didn't  look  at  the  people's  hats  and  bonnets  that 
day  half  as  much  as  I  usually  did,  and  part  of  that  ser 
mon  stayed  by  me  all  my  life.  He  preached  about 
Nebuchadnezzar  and  the  image  he  saw  in  his  dream 
with  the  head  of  gold  and  the  feet  of  clay.  And  he 
said  that  every  human  being  was  like  that  image;  there 
was  gold  and  there  was  clay  in  every  one  of  us.  Part 
of  us  was  human  and  part  was  divine.  Part  of  us  was 
earthly  like  the  clay,  and  part  heavenly  like  the  gold. 

229 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

And  he  said  I  hat  in  some  folks  you  couldn't  see  any 
thing  but  the  clay,  but  that  the  gold  was  there,  and 
if  you  looked  long  enough  you'd  find  it.  And  some 
folks,  he  said,  looked  like  they  was  all  gold,  but  some 
where  or  other  there  was  the  clay,  too,  and  nobody  was 
so  good  but  what  he  had  his  secret  sins  and  open  faults. 
And  he  said  sin  was  jest  another  name  for  ignorance, 
and  that  Christ  knew  this  when  he  prayed  on  the  cross, 
'Father,  forgive  them,  for  they  know  not  what  they  do.' 
He  said  everybody  would  do  right,  if  they  knew  what 
was  right  to  do,  and  that  the  thing  for  us  to  do  was  to 
look  for  the  gold  and  not  the  clay  in  other  folks.  For 
the  gold  was  the  part  that  would  never  die,  and  the  clay 
was  jest  the  mortal  part  that  we  dropped  when  this 
mortal  shall  have  put  on  immortality. 

"Child,  that  sermon's  come  home  to  me  many  a  time 
when  I've  caught  myself  weighin'  people  in  the  balance 
and  findin'  'em  wantin'.  That's  what  I'd  been  doin' 
all  them  years  with  pore  Harvey.  I'd  seen  things 
every  once  in  a  while  that  let  in  a  little  light  on  his  life 
and  Mary's,  but  the  old  cabin  made  it  all  plain  as  day, 
and  it  seemed  like  every  piece  o'  rubbish  in  it  rose  up 
in  judgment  against  me.  I  never  felt  like  cryin'  at 
Harvey's  funeral,  but  when  I  stood  there  peerin' 

230 


MARY    ANDREWS'    DINNER-PARTY 

around,  the  tears  burnt  ray  eyes,  and  I  says  to  myself, 
'  Clay  and  gold !  Clay  and  gold ! ' 

"The  same  thought  must  'a'  struck  Mary  at  the 
same  minute  it  did  me,  for  she  fell  on  her  knees  moanin' 
and  wringin'  her  hands  and  cryin': 

"God  forgive  me!  God  forgive  me!  I  see  it  all 
now.  He  couldn't  help  it,  and  I've  been  a  hard  woman, 
and  God'll  judge  me  as  I  judged  Harvey.' 

"The  look  in  her  eyes  and  the  sound  of  her  voice 
skeered  me,  and  I  saw  that  the  quicker  I  got  her  out  o' 
the  old  cabin  the  better.  I  put  my  hand  on  her  shoul 
der,  and  says  I,  'Hush,  Mary.  Get  up  and  come  back 
to  the  house;  but  don't  let  the  children  hear  you  takin' 
on  so.  You  might  skeer  little  Harvey.' 

"She  stopped  a  minute  and  stared  at  me,  and  then 
she  caught  hold  o'  my  hand,  and  says  she:  'No!  no! 
the  children  mustn't  ever  know  anything  about  it,  and 
nobody  must  ever  see  the  inside  o'  that  awful  place. 
Come,  quick!'  says  she;  and  she  got  up  from  her  knees 
and  pulled  me  outside  of  the  door  and  locked  it  and 
dropped  the  key  in  her  apron  pocket. 

"Little  Harvey  come  runnin'  up  to  her,  and  I  was  in 
hopes  the  sight  of  the  (hild  would  bring  her  to  herself, 
but  she  walked  on  as  if  she  hadn't  seen  him;  and  as 

231 


AUNT    JANE    OP    KENTUCKY 

soon  as  she  got  up-stairs  she  fell  down  in  a  heap  on  the 
floor  and  went  to  wringin'  her  hands  and  beatin'  her 
breast  and  cryin'  without  tears. 

"Honey,  if  you're  done  a  wrong  to  a  livin'  person, 
you  needn't  set  down  and  grieve  over  it.  You  can  go 
right  to  the  person  and  make  it  right  or  try  to  make  it 
right.  But  when  the  one  you've  wronged  is  dead,  and 
the  grave  lies  between  you,  that's  the  sort  o'  grief  that 
breaks  hearts  and  makes  people  lose  their  minds. 
And  that  was  what  Mary  Andrews  had  to  bear  when 
she  opened  the  door  o'  that  old  cabin  and  saw  into 
Harvey's  nature,  and  felt  that  she  had  misjudged  and 
condemned  him. 

"I  couldn't  do  anything  for  a  long  time,  but  jest  sit 
by  her  and  listen  while  she  called  Harvey  back  from 
the  dead,  and  called  on  God  to  forgive  her,  and  blamed 
herself  for  all  that  had  ever  gone  wrong  between  'em. 
But  at  last  she  wore  herself  out  and  had  to  stop,  and 
says  I,  'Mary,  I  don't  know  what's  passed  between 
you  and  Harvey—  And  she  broke  in,  and  says  she: 

"'No!  no!  you  don't  know,  and  nobody  on  this  earth 
knows  what  I've  been  through.  I  used  to  feel  like  I 
was  in  an  iron  cage  that  got  smaller  and  smaller  every 
day,  and  I  knew  the  day  was  comin'  when  it  would  shut 

232 


MARY    ANDREWS'    DINNER-PARTY 

in  on  me  and  crush  me.  But  I  wouldn't  give  in  to 
Harvey,  I  wouldn't  let  him  have  his  own  way,  and  I 
fought  him  and  hated  him  and  despised  him;  and  now 
I  see  he  couldn't  help  it,  and  I  feel  like  I'd  been  strikin' 
a  crippled  child.' 

"A  crippled  child!  That  was  jest  what  pore  Harvey 
was;  but  I  knew  it  wasn't  right  for  Mary  to  take  all  the 
blame  on  herself,  and  says  I: 

"Mary,  if  Harvey  could  keep  other  people  from 
knowin'  what  he  was,  couldn't  he  have  kept  you  from 
knowin'  it,  too  ?  If  he  was  free-handed  to  other 
people,  what  was  to  hinder  him  from  bein'  the  same 
way  to  you?'  Says  I,  'If  there's  any  blame  in  this 
matter  it  belongs  as  much  to  Harvey  as  it  does  to  you. 
When  you  look  at  that  old  cabin,'  says  I,  'you  can't 
have  any  hard  feelin's  toward  pore  Harvey.  You've 
forgiven  him,  and  now,'  says  I,  'there's  jest  one  more 
person  you've  got  to  forgive,  and  that's  yourself,'  says  I. 
'It's  jest  as  wrong  to  be  too  hard  on  yourself  as  it  is  to 
be  too  hard  on  other  folks.' 

"I  never  had  thought  o'  that  before,  child,  but  I've 
thought  of  it  many  a  time  since  and  I  know  it's  true. 
It  ain't  often  you  find  a  human  bein'  that's  too  hard  on 
himself.  Most  of  us  is  jest  the  other  way.  But  Mary 

233 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

was  one  of  that  kind.  I  could  see  a  change  come  over 
her  face  while  I  was  talkin',  and  I've  always  believed 
them  words  was  put  in  my  mouth  to  give  Mary  the 
comfort  and  help  she  needed. 

"She  grabbed  hold  o'  my  hand,  and  says  she: 
"Do  you  reckon  I've  got  a  right  to  forgive  myself?' 
Says  she,  'I  know  I'm  not  a  mean  woman  by  nature, 
but  Harvey's  ways  wasn't  my  ways.  He  made  me  do 
things  I  didn't  want  to  do  and  say  things  I  didn't  want 
to  say,  and  I  never  was  myself  as  long  as  I  lived  with 
him.  But  God  knows  I  wouldn't  'a'  been  so  hard  on 
him  if  I'd  only  known,'  says  she.  'God  may  forgive 
me,  but  even  if  He  does,  it  don't  seem  to  me  that  I've 
got  a  right  to  forgive  myself.' 

"And  says  I,  'Mary,  if  you  don't  forgive  yourself  you 
won't  be  able  to  keer  for  the  children,  and  you  haven't 
got  any  right  to  wrong  the  livin'  by  worryin'  over  the 
dead.  And  now,'  says  I,  'you  lie  down  on  this  bed  and 
shut  your  eyes  and  say  to  yourself,  ' '  Harvey's  forgiven 
me,  and  God's  forgiven  me,  and  I  forgive  myself." 
Don't  let  another  thought  come  into  your  head.  Jest 
say  it  over  and  over  till  you  go  to  sleep,  and  while 
you're  sleepin',  I'll  look  after  the  children.' 

"I  didn't  have  much  faith  in  my  own  remedy,  but 
234 


MARY    ANDREWS'    DINNER-PARTY 

she  minded  me  like  a  child  mindin'  its  mother;  and, 
sure  enough,  when  I  tiptoed  up-stairs  an  hour  or  so 
after  that,  I  found  her  fast  asleep.  Her  mother  and 
her  sister  Sally  come  while  she  was  still  sleepin',  and  I 
left  for  home,  feel  in'  that  she  was  in  good  hands. 

"That  night  about  half-past  nine  o'clock  I  went  out 
doors  and  set  down  on  the  porch  steps  in  the  dark,  as  I 
always  do  jest  before  bedtime.  That's  been  one  o' 
my  ways  ever  since  I  was  a  child.  Abram  used  to  say 
he  had  known  me  to  forgit  my  prayers  many  a  night, 
but  he  never  knew  me  to  forgit  to  go  outdoors  and  look 
up  at  the  sky.  If  there  wTas  a  moon,  or  if  the  stars  was 
shiniu',  I'd  stay  out  and  wander  around  in  the  gyarden 
till  he'd  come  out  after  me-;  and  if  it  was  cloudy,  I'd 
set  there  and  feel  safe  in  the  darkness  as  in  the  light. 
I  always  have  thought,  honey,  that  we  lose  a  heap  by 
sleepin'  all  night.  Well,  I  was  sittin'  there  lookin'  up 
at  the  stars,  and  all  at  once  I  saw  a  bright  light  over  in 
the  direction  of  Harvey  Andrews'  place.  Our  house 
was  built  on  risin'  ground,  and  we  could  sec  for  a  good 
ways  around  the  country.  I  called  Abram  and  asked 
him  if  he  hadn't  better  saddle  old  Moll  and  ride  over 
and  see  if  he  couldn't  help  whoever  was  in  trouble. 
But  he  said  it  was  most  likely  some  o'  the  neighbors 

235 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

burnin'  brush,  and  whatever  it  was  it  would  be  out 
before  he  could  git  to  it.  So  we  set  there  watchin'  it 
and  speculatin'  about  it  till  it  died  down,  and  then  we 
went  to  bed. 

"The  next  mornin'  I  was  out  in  the  yard  weedin'  out 
a  bed  o'  clove  pinks,  and  Sam  Amos  come  ridin'  by  on 
his  big  bay  mare.  I  hollered  to  him  and  asked  him  if 
he  knew  where  the  fire  w-as  the  night  before.  And  says 
he,  'Yes,  Aunt  Jane;  it  was  that  old  cabin  on  Harvey 
Andrews'  place.'  He  said  that  Amos  Matthews  hap 
pened  to  be  goin'  by  at  the  time  and  took  down  the 
fence-rails  to  keep  it  from  spreadin',  but  that  was  all  he 
could  do.  Sam  said  Amos  told  him  there  was  some- 
thin'  mysterious  about  that  fire.  He  said  it  must  'a' 
been  started  from  the  inside,  for  the  flames  didn't  burst 
through  the  windows  and  roof  till  after  he  got  there, 
and  the  whole  inside  was  ablaze.  But,  when  he  tried 
to  open  the  door,  it  was  locked  fast  and  tight.  He  said 
Mary  and  her  mother  and  sister  was  all  out  in  the  yard, 
and  Mary  was  standin'  with  her  hands  folded  in  front 
of  her,  lookin'  at  the  burnin'  house  jest  as  calm  as  if  it 
was  her  own  fireplace.  Amos  asked  her  for  the  key 
to  the  cabin  door,  and  she  went  to  the  back  porch  and 
took  one  off  a  nail,  but  it  wouldn't  fit  the  lock,  and 

230 


MARY   ANDREWS'    DINNER-PARTY 

before  she  could  get  another  to  try,  the  roof  was  on  fire 
and  cavin'  in.  Amos  told  Sam  the  cabin  appeared 
to  be  full  of  old  plunder  of  all  sorts,  and  you  could  smell 
burnt  rags  for  a  mile  around. 

"Of  course  there  was  a  good  deal  o'  talk  about  the 
fire,  and  everybody  said  how  curious  it  was  that  it 
could  catch  on  the  inside  when  the  door  was  locked. 
I  never  said  a  word,  not  even  to  Abram,  but  I  knew  wrell 
enough  who  set  the  old  cabin  afire,  and  why  the  key 
Mary  gave  Amos  wouldn't  fit  the  lock.  Harvey's 
clothes  was  packed  away  under  the  old  garret;  the  old 
cabin  wTas  burned,  and  the  ashes  and  rubbish  hauled 
away,  and  there  wasn't  anything  much  left  to  remind 
Mary  of  the  things  she  was  tryin'  to  forget.  That's 
the  best  way  to  do.  When  a  thing's  done  and  you 
can't  undo  it,  there's  no  use  in  frettin'  and  worryin' 
yourself.  Jest  put  it  out  o'  your  mind,  and  go  on  your 
way  and  git  ready  for  the  next  trial  that's  comin' 
to  you. 

"But  Mary  never  seemed  like  herself  after  Harvey 
died,  until  little  Harvey  was  taken  with  fever.  That 
seemed  to  rouse  her  and  bring  her  senses  back,  and  she 
nursed  him  night  and  day.  The  little  thing  went  down 
to  the  very  gates  of  death,  and  everybody  give  up  hope 

2137 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

except  the  old  doctor.  He'd  fight  death  off  as  long  as 
(here  was  breath  in  the  body.  The  night  the  turnin' 
point  was  to  come  I  set  up  with  Mary.  The  child'd 
been  moanin'  and  tossin',  and  his  muscles  was  twitchin', 
and  the  fever  jest  as  high  as  it  could  be.  But  about 
three  o'clock  he  got  quiet  and  about  half-past  three  I 
leaned  over  and  counted  his  breaths.  He  was  breathin' 
slow  and  regular,  and  I  touched  his  forehead  and  found 
it  was  wet,  and  the  fever  was  goin'  away.  I  went  over 
to  Mary,  and  says  I,  'You  go  in  the  other  room  and  lie 
down,  Mary,  the  fever's  broke,  and  Harvey's  goin'  to 
git  well.'  She  stared  at  me  like  she  couldn't  take  in 
what  I  was  savin'.  Then  her  face  begun  to  work  like 
a  person's  in  a  convulsion,  and  she  jumped  up  and 
rushed  out  o'  the  room,  and  the  next  minute  she  give  a 
cry  that  I  can  hear  yet.  Then  she  begun  to  sob,  and 
I  knew  she  was  cryin'  tears  at  last,  and  I  set  by  the  child 
and  cried  with  her. 

"She  wasn't  able  to  be  up  for  two  or  three  days,  and 
every  little  while  she'd  burst  out  cryin'.  Some  folks 
said  she  was  cryin'  for  joy  about  the  child  gittin'  well; 
and  some  said  she  was  cryin'  the  tears  she  ought  to  'a' 
cried  when  Harvey  was  buried;  but  I  knew  she  was 
cryin'  over  all  the  sorrows  of  her  married  life.  She 

238 


MARY   ANDREWS'    DINNER-PARTY 

told  me  afterwards  that  she  hadn't  shed  a  tear  for  six 
or  seven  years.  Says  she,  'I  used  to  cry  my  eyes  out 
nearly  over  the  way  things  went,  and  one  day  somethin' 
happened  and  I  come  near  cryin';  but  the  children  was 
around  and  I  didn't  want  them  to  see  me;  so  I  says  to 
myself,  "I  won't  cry.  What's  the  use  wastin'  tears 
over  such  things?"  And  from  that  day,'  says  she,  'I 
got  as  hard  as  a  stone,  and  it  looks  like  I  was  jest  turnin' 
back  to  flesh  and  blood  again.' 

"There's  only  two  ways  o'  takin'  trouble,  child;  you 
can  laugh  over  it  or  you  can  cry  over  it.  But  you've 
got  to  do  one  or  the  other.  The  Lord  made  some  folks 
that  can  laugh  away  their  troubles,  and  he  made  tears 
for  them  that  can't  laugh,  and  human  bein's  can't 
harden  themselves  into  stone. 

"I  reckon,  as  Mary  said,  nobody  on  earth  knew  what 
she'd  been  through,  livin'  with  a  man  like  Harvey.  If 
he'd  been  an  out-and-out  miser,  it  would  'a'  been  better 
for  everybody  concerned.  But  it  looked  like  Nature 
started  out  to  make  him  a  miser  and  then  sp'iled  the 
job,  so's  he  was  neither  one  thing  nor  the  other.  The 
geld  was  there,  and  he  showed  that  to  outsiders;  and 
the  clay  was  there,  and  he  showed  that  to  Mary.  And 
that's  the  strangest  part  of  all  to  me.  If  he  had  enough 

239 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

sense  not  to  want  his  neighbors  to  know  his  meanness, 
it  looks  like  he  ought  to  have  had  sense  enough  to  hide 
it  from  his  \vife.  A  man  ought  to  want  his  wife  to  think 
well  of  him  whether  anybody  else  does  or  not.  You 
see,  a  woman  can  make  out  to  live  with  a  man  and  not 
love  him,  but  she  can't  live  with  him  and  despise  him. 
She's  jest  got  to  respect  him.  But  there's  some  men 
that  never  have  found  that  out.  They  think  that  be 
cause  a  woman  stands  up  before  a  preacher  and  prom 
ises  to  love  and  honor  him,  that  she's  bound  to  do  it,  no 
matter  what  he  does.  And  some  women  do.  They're 
like  dogs;  they'll  stick  to  a  man  no  matter  what  he  does. 
Some  women  never  can  see  any  faults  in  their  husbands, 
and  some  sees  the  faults  and  covers  'em  up  and  hides 
'em  from  outsiders.  But  Mary  wasn't  that  sort.  She 
couldn't  deceive  herself,  and  nobody  could  deceive 
her;  and  when  she  found  out  Harvey's  meanness  she 
couldn't  help  despisin'  him  in  her  heart,  jest  like  Michal 
despised  David  when  she  saw  him  playin'  and  dancin' 
before  the  Lord. 

"There's  something  I  never  have  understood,  and 
one  of  'em  is  why  such  a  wToman  as  Mary  should  'a' 
been  permitted  to  marry  a  man  like  Harvey  Andrews. 
It  kind  o'  shakes  my  faith  in  Providence  every  time  I 

240 


MARY   ANDREWS'    DINNER-PARTY 

think  of  it.  But  I  reckon  there  was  a  reason  for  it, 
whether  I  can  see  it  or  not." 

Aunt  Jane's  voice  ceased.  She  dropped  her  knitting 
in  her  lap  and  leaned  back  in  the  old  easy-chair.  Ap 
parently  she  was  looking  at  the  dripping  syringa  bush 
near  the  window,  but  the  look  in  her  eyes  told  me  that 
she  had  reached  a  page  in  the  story  that  wras  not  for  my 
eyes  or  my  ears,  and  I  held  inviolate  the  silence  that  had 
fallen  between  us. 

A  low,  far-off  roll  of  thunder,  the  last  note  of  the 
storm-music,  roused  her  from  her  reverie. 

"Sakes  alive,  child!"  she  exclaimed,  starting  bolt 
upright.  "Have  I  been  slecpin'  and  dreamin'  and  you 
settin'  here?  Well,  I  got  through  with  my  story,  any 
how,  before  I  dropped  off." 

"Surely  that  isn't  all,"  I  said,  discontentedly.  "What 
became  of  Mary  Andrews  after  Harvey  died?" 

Aunt  Jane  laughed  blithely. 

"No,  it  ain't  all.  What's  gittin'  into  me  to  leave 
off  the  endin'  of  a  story?  Mary  was  married  young; 
and  when  Harvey  died  she  had  the  best  part  of  her  life 
before  her,  and  it  was  the  best  part,  sure  enough. 
About  a  year  after  she  was  left  a  widow  she  went  up  to 
Christian  County  to  visit  some  of  her  cousins,  and  there 

241 


AUNT   JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

she  met  the  man  she  ought  to  V  married  in  the  first 
place.  I  ain't  any  hand  for  second  marriages.  'One 
man  for  one  woman,'  says  I;  but  I've  seen  so  many 
second  marriages  that  was  happier  than  any  first  ones 
that  I  never  say  anything  against  marryin'  twice. 
Some  folks  are  made  for  each  other,  but  they  make  mis 
takes  in  the  road  and  git  lost,  and  don't  git  found  till 
they've  been  through  a  heap  o'  tribulation,  and,  maybe, 
the  biggest  half  o'  their  life's  gone.  But  then,  they've 
got  all  eternity  before  'em,  and  there's  time  enough 
there  to  find  all  they've  lost  and  more  besides.  But 
Mary  found  her  portion  o'  happiness  before  it  was  too 
late.  Elbert  Madison  was  the  man  she  married.  He 
was  an  old  bachelor,  and  a  mighty  well-to-do  man,  and 
they  said  every  old  maid  and  widow  in  Christian  County 
had  set  her  cap  for  him  one  time  or  another.  But 
whenever  folks  said  anything  to  him  about  marryin', 
he'd  say,  'I'm  waitin'  for  the  Right  Woman.  She's 
somewhere  in  the  world,  and  as  soon  as  I  find  her  I'm 
goin'  to  marry.' 

"It  got  to  be  a  standin'  joke  with  the  neighbors  and 
the  family,  and  his  brother  used  to  say  that  Elbert  be 
lieved  in  that  'Right  Woman'  the  same  as  he  believed 
in  God. 

242 


MARY    ANDREWS'    DINNER-PARTY 

"They  used  to  tell  how  one  Christmas,  Elbert's  nieces 
had  a  lot  o'  young  company  from  Louisville,  and  they 
had  a  big  dance  Christmas  Eve.  Elbert  was  there,  and 
the  minute  he  come  into  the  room  the  oldest  niece,  she 
whispered,  'Here's  Uncle  Elbert;  he's  come  to  see  if  the 
Right  Woman's  at  the  ball.'  And  with  that  all  them 
gyirls  rushed  up  to  Elbert  and  shook  hands  with  him 
and  pulled  him  into  the  middle  o'  the  room  under  a  big 
bunch  o'  mistletoe,,  and  the  prettiest  and  sassiest  one  of 
'em,  she  took  her  dress  between  the  tips  of  her  fingers 
and  spread  it  out  and  made  a  low  bow,  and  says  she, 

1  i/ 

lookin'  up  into  Elbert's  face,  says  she: 

'"Mr.  Madison,  don't  I  look  like  the  Right  Woman  ?' 

"Evervbodv  laughed  and  expected  to  see  Elbert 
blush  and  act  like  he  wanted  to  go  through  the  floor. 
But  instead  o'  that  he  looked  at  her  serious  and  earnest, 
and  at  last  he  says:  'You  do  look  a  little  like  her,  but 
you  ain't  her.  You've  got  the  color  of  her  eyes,'  says 
he,  'but  not  the  look  of  'em.  Her  hair's  dark  like 
yours,  but  it  don't  curl  quite  as  much,  and  she's  taller 
than  you  are,  but  not  quite  so  slim.' 

"They  said  the  gyirls  stopped .  laughin'  and  jest 
looked  at  each  other,  and  one  of  'em  said: 

'"Well,  did  you  ever?'  And  that  was  the  last  time 
243 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

they  tried  to  tease  Elbert.  But  Elbert's  brother  he 
turns  to  somebody  standin'  near  him,  and  says  he, 
'Unless  Elbert  gets  that  " right- woman "  foolishness  out 
of  his  head  and  marries  and  settles  down  like  other  men, 
I  believe  he'll  end  his  days  in  a  lunatic  asylum.' 

"But  it  all  turned  out  the  way  Elbert  said  it  would. 
The  minute  he  saw  Mary  Andrews,  he  whispered  to  his 
sister-in-law,  and  says  he,  'Sister  Mary,  do  you  see  that 
dark-eyed  woman  over  there  by  the  door?  Well,  that's 
the  woman  I've  been  lookin'  for  all  my  life.' 

"He  walked  across  the  room  and  got  introduced  to 
her,  and  they  said  when  him  and  Mary  shook  hands 
they  looked  each  other  in  the  eyes  and  laughed  like  two 
old  friends  that  hadn't  met  for  years. 

"Harvey  hadn't  been  dead  much  over  a  year  and 
Mary  wanted  to  put  off  the  weddin'.  But  Elbert  said, 
'No;  I've  waited  for  you  a  lifetime  and  I'm  not  goin' 
to  wait  any  longer.'  So  they  got  married  as  soon  as 
Mary  could  have  her  weddin'  clothes  made,  and  a  hap 
pier  couple  you  never  saw.  Elbert  used  to  look  at  her 
and  say: 

"God  made  Eve  for  Adam,  and  he  made  you  for 
me.' 

"And  he  didn't  only  love  Mary,  but  he  loved  her 
244 


MARY   ANDREWS'    DINNER-PARTY 

children  the  same  as  if  they'd  1: ecu  his  own.  A  woman 
that's  been  another  man's  wife  can  easy  enough  find  a 
man  to  love  her,  hut  to  find  one  that'll  love  the  other 
man's  children,  that's  a  different  matter." 

One!  two!  three!  four!  chimed  the  old  clock;  and  at 
the  same  moment  out  came  the  sun,  sending  long  rays 
across  the  room.  The  rain  had  subsided  to  a  gentle 
mist,  and  the  clouds  were  rolling  away  before  a  south 
west  wind  that  carried  with  it  fragrance  from  wet 
flowers  and  leaves  and  a  world  cleansed  and  renewed 
by  a  summer  storm.  We  moved  our  chairs  out  on  the 
porch  to  enjoy  the  clearing-off.  There  were  health  and 
strength  in  every  breath  of  the  cool,  moist  air,  and  for 
every  sense  but  one  a  pleasure  —  odor,  light,  coolness, 
and  the  faint  music  of  falling  water  from  the  roof  and 
from  the  trees  that  sent  down  miniature  showers  when 
ever  the  wind  stirred  their  branches. 

Aunt  Jane  drew  a  deep  breath  of  satisfaction,  and 
looked  upward  at  the  blue  sky. 

"I  don't  mind  how  much  it  rains  durin'  the  day," 
she  said,  "if  it'll  jest  stop  off  before  night  and  let  the 
sun  set  clear.  And  that's  the  way  with  life,  child.  If 
everything  ends  right,  we  can  forget  all  about  the 
troubles  we've  had  before.  I  reckon  if  Mary  Andrews 

245 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

could  'a'  seen  a  few  years  ahead  while  she  was  havin' 
her  trials  with  pore  Harvey,  she  would  'a'  borne  'em 
all  with  a  better  grace.  But  lookin'  ahead  is  somethin' 
we  ain't  permitted  to  do.  We've  jest  got  to  stand  up 
under  the  present  and  trust  for  the  time  we  can't  see. 
And  whether  we  trust  or  not,  child,  no  matter  how  dark 
it  is  nor  how  long  it  stays  dark,  the  sun's  goin'  to  come 
out  some  time,  and  it's  all  goin'  to  be  right  at  the  last. 
You  know  what  the  Scripture  says,  'At  evening  time 
it  shall  be  light!'" 

Her  faded  eyes  were  turned  reverently  toward  the 
glory  of  the  western  sky,  but  the  light  on  her  face  was 
not  all  of  the  setting  sun. 

"At  evening  time  it  shall  be  light!" 

Not  of  the  day  but  of  human  life  were  these  words 
spoken,  and  with  Aunt  Jane  the  prophecy  had  been 
fulfilled. 


246 


IX 
THE    GARDENS    OF    MEMORY 


247 


E 


IX 


THE  GARDENS  OF  MEMORY 


ACH  of  us  has  his  own  way  of  classifying 
humanity.  To  me,  as  a  child,  men  and  women 
fell  naturally  into  two  great  divisions:  those  who  had 
gardens  and  those  who  had  only  houses. 

Brick  walls  and  pavements  hemmed  me  in  and  robbed 
me  of  one  of  my  birthrights;  and  to  the  fancy  of  child 
hood  a  garden  was  a  paradise,  and  the  people  who  had 
gardens  were  happy  Adams  and  Eves  walking  in  a 
golden  mist  of  sunshine  and  showers,  with  green  leaves 
and  blue  sky  overhead,  and  blossoms  springing  ax,  their 

249 


AUNT   JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

feet;  while  those  others,  dispossessed  of  life's  springs, 
summers,  and  autumns,  appeared  darkly  entombed  in 
shops  and  parlors  where  the  year  might  as  well  have 
been  a  perpetual  winter. 

As  I  grew  older  I  learned  that  there  was  a  small  sub 
class  composed  of  people  who  not  only  possessed 
gardens,  but  whose  gardens  possessed  them,  and  it  is 
the  spots  sown  and  tended  by  these  that  blossom 
eternally  in  one's  remembrance  as  veritable  vailimas  — 
"gardens  of  dreams." 

In  every  one's  mind  there  is  a  lonely  space,  almost 
abandoned  of  consciousness,  the  time  between  infancy 
and  childhood.  It  is  like  that  period  when  the  earth 
was  "without  form,  and  void;  and  darkness  was  upon 
the  face  of  the  deep."  Here,  like  lost  stars  floating 
in  the  firmament  of  mind,  will  be  found  two  or  three 
faint  memories,  remote  and  disconnected.  With  me 
one  of  these  memories  is  of  a  garden.  I  was  riding  with 
my  father  along  a  pleasant  country  road.  There  were 
sunshine  and  a  gentle  wind,  and  white  clouds  in  a  blue 
sky.  "We  stopped  at  a  gate.  My  father  opened  it,  and 
I  walked  up  a  grassy  path  to  the  ruins  of  a  house.  The 
chimney  was  still  standing,  but  all  the  rest  was  a  heap 
of  blackened,  half-burned  rubbish  which  spring  and 

250 


THE    GARDENS    OF    MEMORY 

summer  were  covering  with  wild  vines  and  weeds,  and 
around  the  ruins  of  the  house  lay  the  ruins  of  the  garden. 
The  honeysuckle,  bereft  of  its  trellis,  wandered  help 
lessly  over  the  ground,  and  amid  a  rank  growth  of 
weeds  sprang  a  host  of  yellow  snapdragons.  I  remem 
ber  the  feeling  of  rapture  that  was  mine  at  the  thought 
that  I  had  found  a  garden  where  flowers  could  be  gath 
ered  without  asking  permission  of  any  one.  And  as  long 
as  I  live,  the  sight  of  a  yellow  snapdragon  on  a  sunny 
day  will  bring  back  my  father  from  his  grave  and  make 
me  a  little  child  again  gathering  flowers  in  that  deserted 
garden,  wThich  is  seemingly  in  another  world  than  this. 

A  later  memory  than  this  is  of  a  place  that  was 
scarcely  more  than  a  paved  court  lying  bet\veen  high 
brick  walls.  But  because  we  children  wanted  a  garden 
i-o  much,  we  called  it  by  that  name;  and  here  and  there 
a  little  of  Mother  Earth's  bosom,  left  uncovered,  gave 
us  some  warrant  for  the  misnomer.  Yet  the  spot  was 
not  without  its  beauties,  and  a  less  exacting  child  might 
have  found  content  within  its  boundaries. 

Here  was  the  Indian  peach  tree,  whose  pink  blossoms 
told  us  that  spring  had  come.  Its  fruit  in  the  late 
summer  was  like  the  pomegranate  in  its  rich  <«olor, 
"blood-tinctured  with  a  veined  humanity;"  and  its 

251 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

friendly  limbs  held  a  swim;  in  which  we  cleft  the  air  like 

v  O 

the  birds.  Yet  even  now  the  sight  of  an  Indian  peach 
brings  melancholy  thoughts.  A  yellow  honeysuckle 
clambered  over  a  wall.  But  this  flower  has  no  perfume, 
and  a  honeysuckle  without  perfume  is  a  base  pretender, 
to  be  cast  out  of  the  family  of  the  real  sweet-scented 
honeysuckle.  There  were  two  roses  of  similar  quality, 
one  that  detestable  mockery  known  as  the  burr-rose. 
I  have  for  this  flower  the  feeling  of  repulsion  that  one  has 
for  certain  disagreeable  human  beings, — -people  with 
cold,  clammy  hands,  for  instance.  I  hated  its  feeble 
pink  color,  its  rough  calyx,  and  its  odor  always  made 
me  think  of  vast  fields  of  snow,  and  icicles  hanging  from 
snow-covered  roofs  under  leaden  wintry  skies.  Un 
happy  mistake  to  call  such  a  thing  a  rose,  and  plant  it 
in  a  child's  garden!  The  only  place  where  it  might 
fitly  grow  is  by  the  side  of  the  road  that  led  Childe 
Roland  to  the  Dark  Tower:  between  the  bit  of  "stubbed 
ground"  and  the  marsh  near  to  the  "palsied  oak,"  with 
its  roots  set  in  the  "bog,  clay  and  rubble,  sand  and 
stark  black  dearth." 

The  other  rose  I  recall  with  the  same  dislike,  though 
it  was  pleasing  to  the  eye.  The  bush  was  tall,  and  had 
the  nature  of  a  climber;  for  it  drooped  in  a  lackadaisical 


THE    GARDENS    OF    MEMORY 

way,  and  had  to  be  tied  to  a  stout  post.  I  think  it 
could  have  stood  upright,  had  it  chosen  to  do  so;  and 
its  drooping  seemed  only  an  ugly  habit,  without  grace. 
The  cream-white  flowers  grew  in  clusters,  and  the  buds 
were  really  beautiful,  but  color  and  form  are  only  the 
body  of  the  rose;  the  soul,  the  real  self,  is  the  rose  odor, 
and  no  rose-soul  was  incarnated  in  its  petals.  A<rain 

I  o 

and  again,  deceived  by  its  beauty,  I  would  hold  it  close 
to  my  face  to  breathe  its  fragrance,  and  always  its  faint 
sickening-sweet  odor  brought  me  only  disappointment 
and  disgust.  It  was  a  Lamia  among  roses.  Another 
peculiarity  was  that  it  had  very  few  thorns,  and  those 
few  were  small  and  weak.  Yet  the  thorn  is  as  much  a 
part  of  the  true  rose  as  its  sweetness;  and  lacking  the 
rose  thorn  and  the  rose  perfume,  what  claim  had  it  to 
the  rose  name  ?  I  never  saw  this  false  rose  elsewhere 
than  in  the  false  garden,  and  because  it  grew  there,  and 
because  it  dishonored  its  royal  family,  I  would  not 
willingly  meet  it  face  to  face  again. 

We  children  cultivated  sweet-scented  geraniums  in 
pots,  but  a  flower  in  a  pot  was  to  me  like  a  bird  in  a 
cage,  and  the  fragrant  geraniums  gave  me  no  more 
pleasure  than  did  the  scentless  many-hued  lady's-slippers 
that  we  planted  in  tiny  borders,  and  the  purple  flowering 

253 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

beans  and  white  blossoms  of  the  madeira  vines  that 
grew  on  a  tall  trellis  by  the  cistern's  grassy  mound. 
There  was  nothing  here  to  satisfy  my  longing,  and  I 
turned  hungrily  to  other  gardens  whose  gates  were  open 
to  me  in  those  early  days.  In  one  of  these  was  a  vast 
bed  of  purple  heartsease,  flower  of  the  beautiful  name. 
Year  after  year  they  had  blossomed  and  gone  to  seed 
till  the  harvest  of  flowers  in  their  season  was  past 
gathering,  and  any  child  in  the  neighborhood  was  at 
liberty  to  pluck  them  by  handfuls,  while  the  wicked 
ones  played  at  "chicken  fighting"  and  littered  the 
ground  with  decapitated  bodies.  There  is  no  hearts 
ease  nowadays,  onlv  the  magnificent  pansv  of  which  it 

i/       7  «/  o  it/ 

was  the  modest  forerunner.  But  one  little  cluster  of 
dark,  spicy  blooms  like  those  I  used  to  gather  in  that 
old  garden  would  be  more  to  me  than  the  most  splendid 
pansy  created  by  the  florist's  art. 

The  lily  of  the  valley  calls  to  mind  a  garden,  almost 
in  the  heart  of  town,  where  this  flower  went  forth  to 
possess  the  land  and  spread  itself  in  so  reckless  a  growth 
that  at  intervals  it  had  to  be  uprooted  to  protect  the 
landed  rights  of  the  rest  of  the  community.  Never 
were  there  such  beds  of  lilies!  And  when  they  pierced 
the  black  loam  with  their  long  sheath-like  leaves,  and 

254 


THE    GARDENS    OF    MEMORY 

broke  their  alabaster  boxes  of  perfume  on  the  feet  of 
spring,  the  most  careless  passer-by  was  forced  to  stay 
his  steps  for  one  ecstatic  moment  to  look  and  to  breathe, 
to  forget  and  to  remember.  The  shadow  of  the  owner's 
house  lay  on  this  garden  at  the  morning  hour,  and  a 
tall  brick  building  intercepted  its  share  of  the  afternoon 
sunshine;  but  the  love  and  care  of  the  wrinkled  old 
woman  who  tended  it  took  the  place  of  real  sunshine, 
and  everything  planted  here  grew  with  a  luxuriance  not 
seen  in  sunnier  and  more  favored  spots.  The  mistress 
of  the  garden,  when  questioned  as  to  this,  would  say  it 
was  because  she  gave  her  flowers  to  all  who  asked,  and 
the  God  of  gardens  loved  the  cheerful  giver  and  blessed 
her  with  an  abundance  of  bud  and  blossom.  The 
highest  philosophy  of  human  life  she  used  in  her  man 
agement  of  this  little  plant  world;  for,  burying  the 
weeds  at  the  roots  of  the  flowers,  the  evil  was  made  to 
minister  to  the  good;  and  the  nettle,  the  plantain  and 
all  their  kind  were  transmuted  by  nature's  fine  chemis 
try  into  pinks,  lilies,  and  roses. 

The  purple  splendor  of  the  wistaria  recalls  the  garden 
that  I  always  entered  with  a  fearful  joy,  for  here  a 
French  gardener  reigned  absolute,  and  the  flowers 
mio-ht  be  looked  at,  but  not  pulled.  How  different  from 

O  A 

255 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

those  wild  gardens  of  the  neighboring  woods  where  we 
children  roamed  at  will,  shouting  rapturously  over  the 
finding  of  a  bed  of  scentless  blue  violets  or  delicate 
anemones  that  withered  and  were  thrown  away  before 
we  reached  home, —  an  allegory,  alas!  of  our  later  lives. 

There  was  one  garden  that  I  coveted  in  those  days  as 
Naboth  coveted  his  neighbor's  vineyard.  After  many 
years,  so  many  that  my  childish  longing  was  almost 
forgotten,  I  had  it,  I  and  my  children.  Together  we 
played  under  the  bee-haunted  lindens,  and  looked  at 
the  sunset  through  the  scarlet  and  yellow  leaves  of  the 
sugar  maples,  and  I  learned  that  "every  desire  is  the 
prophecy  of  its  own  fulfilment;"  and  if  the  fulfilment 
is  long  delayed,  it  is  only  that  it  may  be  richer  and 
deeper  when  it  does  come. 

All  these  were  gardens  of  the  South;  but  before  child 
hood  was  over  I  watched  the  quick,  luxuriant  growth 
of  flowyers  through  the  brief  summer  of  a  northern  clime. 
The  Canterbury-bell,  so  like  a  prim,  pretty  maiden,  the 
dahlia,  that  stately  dame  always  in  court  costume  of 
gorgeous  velvet,  remind  me  of  those  well-kept  beds 
where  not  a  leaf  or  flower  was  allowed  to  grow  awry; 
and  in  one  ancient  garden  the  imagination  of  a  child 
found  wings  for  many  an  airy  flight.  The  town  itself 

25G 


THE    GARDENS    OF    MEMORY 

bore  the  name  of  the  English  nobleman,  well  known 
in  Revolutionary  days.  Not  far  away  his  mansion 
sturdily  defied  the  touch  of  time  and  decay,  and  admon 
ished  the  men  of  a  degenerate  present  to  remember 
their  glorious  past.  The  house  that  sheltered  me  that 
summer  was  known  in  colonial  days  as  the  Black-Horse 
Tavern.  Its  walls  had  echoed  to  the  tread  of  patriot 
and  tory,  who  gathered  here  to  drink  a  health  to  Gen 
eral  Washington  or  to  King  George;  and  patriot,  and 
tory,  too,  had  trod  the  paths  of  the  garden  and  plucked 
its  flowers  and  its  fruit  in  the  times  that  tried  men's 
souls.  By  the  back  gate  grew  a  strawberry  apple  tree, 
and  every  morning  the  dewy  grass  held  a  night's  wind 
fall  of  the  tiny  red  apples  that  were  the  reward  of  the 
child  who  rose  earliest.  A  wonderful  grafted  tree  that 
bore  two  kinds  of  fruit  gave  the  place  a  touch  of  fairy 
land's  magic,  and  no  explanation  of  the  process  of 
grafting  ever  diminished  the  awe  I  felt  when  I  stood 
under  this  tree  and  saw  ripe  spice  apples  growing  on 
one  limb  and  green  winter  pearmains  on  all  the  others. 
The  pound  sweeting,  the  spitzenberg,  and  many  sister 
apples  were  there;  and  I  stayed  long  enough  to  sec  them 
ripen  into  perfection.  While  they  ripened  I  gathered 
the  jewel-like  clusters  of  red  and  white  currants  and  a 

257 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

certain  rare  English  gooseberry  which  English  hands 
had  brought  from  beyond  the  seas  and  planted  here 
when  the  sign  of  the  Black-Horse  swung  over  the  tav 
ern  door.  The  ordinary  gooseberry  is  a  plebeian  fruit, 
but  this  one  was  more  patrician  than  its  name,  and  its 
name  was  "the  King  George."  Twice  as  large  as  the 
common  kind,  translucent  and  yellowish  white  when 
fully  ripe,  and  of  an  incomparable  sweetness  and  flavor, 
it  could  have  graced  a  king's  table  and  held  its  own  with 
the  delicate  strawberry  or  the  regal  grape.  And  then, 
best  of  all,  it  was  a  forbidden  fruit,  whereof  we  children 
ate  by  stealth,  and  solemnly  declared  that  we  had  not 
eaten.  Could  the  Garden  of  the  Hesperides  have  held 
more  charms? 

At  the  end  of  the  long  Dutch  "stoop"  I  found  the 
wands  of  he  snowberry,  whose  tiny  flowers  have  the 
odor  and  color  of  the  trailing  arbutus,  and  whose 
waxen  berries  reminded  me  of  the  crimson  "buck- 
berry"  of  Southern  fields.  Fuchsias  and  dark-red 
clove  pinks  grew  in  a  peculiarly  rich  and  sunny 
spot  by  the  back  fence,  and  over  a  pot  of  the  musk- 
plant  I  used  to  hang  as  Isabella  hung  over  her  pot  of 
basil.  I  had  never  seen  it  before,  and  have  never  seen 
it  since,  but  by  the  witchery  of  perfume  one  of  its  yellow 

258 


THE    GARDENS    OF    MEMORY 

flowers,  one  of  its  soft  pale  green  leaves  could  place  me 
again  in  that  garden  of  the  old  inn,  a  child  walking 
among  the  ghosts  and  memories  of  a  past  century. 

In  all  these  flowery  closes  there  are  rich  aftermaths; 
hut  when  Memory  goes  a-gleaning,  she  dwells  longest 

f        O  O  O '  O 

on  the  evenings  and  mornings  once  spent  in  Aunt  Jane's 
garden. 

"I  don't  reckon  Solomon  was  thinkin'  about  flower 
gyardcns  when  he  said  there  was  a  time  for  all  things," 
Aunt  Jane  was  wont  to  say,  "  hut  anyhow  it's  so.  You 
know  the  Bible  says  that  the  Lord  God  walked  in  the 
gyarden  of  Eden  in  'the  cool  of  the  day,'  and  that's  the 
hest  time  for  seein'  flowers, —  the  cool  of  the  mornin' 
and  the  cool  of  the  evenin'.  There's  jest  as  much 
difference  hetween  a  flower  with  the  dew  on  it  at  sun-up 
and  a  flower  in  the  middle  o'  the  day  as  there  is  hetween 
a  woman  when  she's  fresh  from  a  good  night's  sleep 
and  when  she's  cookin'  a  twelve-o'clock  dinner  in  a  hot 
kitchen.  You  think  them  poppies  are  mighty  pretty 
with  the  sun  shinin'  on  'em,  hut  the  poppy  ain't  a  sun 
flower;  it's  a  sunrise  flower." 

And  so  I  found  them  when  I  saw  them  in  the  faint 
light  of  a  summer  dawn,  delicate  and  tremulous,  like 
lovely  apparitions  of  the  night  that  an  hour  of  sun  will 

259 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

dispel.  With  other  flowers  the  miracle  of  blossoming 
is  performed  so  slowly  that  we  have  not  time  to  watch 
its  every  stage.  There  is  no  precise  moment  when 
the  rose  leaves  become  a  bud,  or  when  the  bud 
turns  to  a  full-blown  flower.  But  at  dawn  by  a  bed 
of  poppies  you  may  watch  the  birth  of  a  flower  as 
it  slips  from  the  calyx,  casting  it  to  the  ground  as  a 
soul  casts  aside  its  outgrown  body,  and  smoothing  the 
wrinkles  from  its  silken  petals,  it  faces  the  day  in  serene 
beauty,  though  the  night  of  death  be  but  a  few  hours 
away. 

"And  some  evenin'  when  the  moon's  full  and  there's 
a  dew  fallin',"  continued  Aunt  Jane,  "that's  the  time 
to  see  roses,  and  to  smell  roses,  too.  And  chrysanthe 
mums,  they're  sun-down  flowers.  You  come  into  my 
gyarden  about  the  first  o'  next  November,  child, 
some  evenin'  when  the  sun's  goin'  down,  and  you'll  see 
the  white  ones  lookin'  like  stars,  and  the  yeller  ones 
shinin'  like  big  gold  lamps  in  the  dusk;  and  when  the 
last  light  o'  the  sun  strikes  the  red  ones,  they  look  like 
cups  o'  wkie,  and  some  of  'em  turn  to  colors  that  there 
ain't  any  names  for.  Chrysanthemums  jest  match  the 
red  and  yel'er  leaves  on  the  trees,  and  the  colors  you 
see  in  the  sky  after  the  first  frosts  when  the  cold  weather 

260 


THE    GARDENS    OF    MEMORY 

begins  to  set  in.  Yes,  honey,  there's  a  time  and  a 
season  for  everything;  flowers,  too,  jest  as  Solomon 
said." 

An  old  garden  is  like  an  old  life.  Who  plants  from 
youth  to  age  writes  a  record  of  the  years  in  leaf  and 
blossom,  and  the  spot  becomes  as  sacred  as  old  wine, 
old  books,  and  old  friends  Here  in  the  garden  of 
Aunt  Jane's  planting  I  found  that  flowers  were  also 
memories;  that  reminiscences  were  folded  in  the  petals 
of  roses  and  lilies;  that  a  rose's  perfume  might  be  a 
voice  from  a  vanished  summer;  and  even  the  snake 
gliding  across  our  path  might  prove  a  messenger  bear 
ing  a  story  of  other  days.  Aunt  Jane  made  a  pass  at  it 
with  her  hoe,  and  laughed  as  the  little  creature  disap 
peared  on  the  other  side  of  the  fence. 

"I  never  see  a  striped  snake,"  she  said,  "that  I  don't 
think  o'  Sam  Amos  and  the  time  he  saw  snakes.  It 
wasn't  often  we  got  a  joke  on  Sam,  but  his  t'u'nament 
and  his  snake  kept  us  laughin'  for  many  a  day. 

"Sam  was  one  o'  them  big,  blunderin'  men,  always 
givin'  Milly  trouble,  and  havin'  trouble  himself,  jest 
through  pure  keerlessness.  He  meant  well;  and  Milly 
used  to  say  that  if  what  Sam  did  was  even  half  as  good 
as  what  Sam  intended  to  do,  tliere'd  be  one  perfect  man 

2(51 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

on  God's  earth  One  of  his  keerless  ways  was  scat- 
terin'  his  clothes  all  over  the  house.  Milly'd  scold  and 
fuss  about  it,  but  Sam  got  worse  instead  o'  better  up  to 
the  day  he  saw  the  snake,  and  after  that  Milly  said  there 
wasn't  a  more  orderly  man  in  the  state.  The  way  of 
it  was  this:  Sam  was  raisin'  an  embankment  'round  one 
of  his  ponds,  and  Uncle  Jim  Matthews  and  Amos  Craw 
ford  was  helpin'  him.  It  was  one  Monday  mornin', 
about  the  first  of  April,  and  the  weather  was  warm  and 
sunny,  jest  the  kind  to  bring  out  snakes.  I  reckon 
there  never  was  anybody  hated  a  snake  as  much  as 
Sam  did.  He'd  been  skeered  by  one  when  he  was  a 
child,  and  never  got  over  it.  He  used  to  say  there  was 
jest  two  things  he  was  afraid  of:  Milly  and  a  snake. 
That  mornin'  Uncle  Jim  and  Amos  got  to  the  pond 
before  Sam  did,  and  Uncle  Jim  hollered  out,  'Well, 
Sam,  we  beat  you  this  time.'  Uncle  Jim  never  got 
tired  tellin'  what  happened  next.  He  said  Sam  run  up 
the  embankment  with  his  spade,  and  set  it  in  the  ground 
and  put  his  foot  on  it  to  push  it  down.  The  next 
minute  he  give  a  yell  that  you  could  'a'  heard  half  a 
mile,  slung  the  spade  over  in  the  middle  o'  the  pond, 
jumped  three  feet  in  the  air,  and  run  down  the  embank 
ment  yellin'  and  kickin'  and  throwin'  his  arms  about  in 

262 


THE    GARDENS    OF    MEMORY 

every  direction,  and  at  last  he  fell  down  on  the  ground 
a  good  distance  from  the  pond. 

"Amos  and  Uncle  Jim  was  so  taken  by  surprise  at 
first  that  they  jest  stood  still  and  looked.  Amos  says, 
says  he:  'The  man's  gone  crazy  all  at  once.'  Uncle 
Jim  says:  'He's  havin'  a  spell.  His  father  and  grand 
father  before  him  used  to  have  them  spells.' 

"They  run  up  to  him  and  found  him  shakin'  like  a 
leaf,  the  cold  sweat  streamin'  out  of  every  pore,  and 
gaspin'  and  sayin',  'Take  it  away!  Take  it  away!'  and 
all  the  time  he  was  throwin'  out  his  left  foot  in  every 
direction.  Finally  Uncle  Jim  grabbed  hold  of  his  foot 
and  there  was  a  red  and  black  necktie  stickin'  out  o' 
the  leg  of  his  pants.  He  pulled  it  out  and  says  he: 
'Why,  Sam,  what's  your  Sunday  necktie  doin'  up  your 
pants  leg  ? ' 

"They  said  Sam  looked  at  it  in  a  foolish  sort  o'  way 
and  then  he  fell  back  laughin'  and  cryin'  at  the  same 
time,  jest  like  a  woman,  and  it  was  five  minutes  or  more 
before  they  could  stop  him.  Uncle  Jim  brought  water 
and  put  on  his  head,  and  Amos  fanned  him  wi'.h  his 
hat,  and  at  last  they  got  him  in  such  a  fix  that  he  could 
sit  up  and  talk,  and  says  he: 

"'I  took  off  m     necktie  last  niht  and  slung  it  down 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

on  a  chair  where  my  everyday  pants  was  layin'.  When 
I  put  my  foot  in  my  pants  this  mornin'  I  must  'a'  car 
ried  the  necktie  inside,  and  by  the  time  I  got  to  the 
pond  it'd  worked  down,  and  I  thought  it  was  a  black 
snake  with  red  stripes.' 

"He  started  to  git  up,  but  his  ankle  was  sprained, 
and  Uncle  Jim  says:  'No  wonder,  Sam;  you  jumped 
about  six  feet  when  you  saw  that  snake  crawlin'  out  o' 
your  pants  leg.' 

"And  Sam  says:  'Six  feet?  I  know  I  jumped  six 
hundred  feet,  Uncle  Jim.' 

"Well,  they  got  him  to  the  house  and  told  Milly 
about  it,  and  she  says:  'Well,  Sam,  I'm  too  sorry  for 
you  to  laugh  at  you  like  Uncle  Jim,  but  I  must  say  this 
wouldn't  'a'  happened  if  you'd  folded  up  that  necktie 
and  put  it  away  in  the  top  drawer.' 

"Sam  was  settin'  on  the  side  of  the  bed  rubbin'  his 
ankle,  and  he  give  a  groan  and  says  he:  'Things  has 
come  to  a  fine  pass  in  Kentucky  when  a  sober,  God- 
fearin'  man  like  me  has  to  put  his  necktie  in  the  top 
drawer  to  keep  from  seein'  snakes.' 

"I  declare  to  goodness!"  laughed  Aunt  Jane,  as  she 
laid  down  her  trowel  and  pushed  back  her  calico  sun- 
bonnet,  "if  I  never  heard  anything  funny  again  in  this 

264 


THE    GARDENS    OF    MEMORY 

world,  I  could  keep  on  laughin'  till  I  died  jest  over 
things  I  ricollect.  The  trouble  is  there  ain't  always 
anybody  around  to  laugh  with  me.  Sam  Amos  ain't 
nothin'  but  a  name  to  you,  child,  but  to  me  he's  jest  as 
real  as  if  he  hadn't  been  dead  these  many  years,  and  I 
can  laugh  over  the  things  he  used  to  do  the  same  as  if 
they  happened  yesterday." 

Only  a  name!  And  I  had  read  it  on  a  lichen-cov 
ered  stone  in  the  old  burying-ground;  but  as  I  walked 
home  through  the  twilight  I  would  hardly  have  been 
startled  if  Sam  Amos,  in  the  pride  of  life,  had  come 
riding  past  me  on  his  bay  mare,  or  if  Uncle  Jim 
Matthews'  voice  of  cheerful  discord  had  mingled  with 
the  spring  song  of  the  frogs  sounding  from  every 
marsh  and  pond. 

It  was  Aunt  Jane's  motto  that  wherever  a  weed 
would  grow  a  flower  would  grow;  and  carrying  out 
this  principle  of  planting,  her  garden  was  continually 
extending  its  boundaries;  and  denizens  of  the  garden 
proper  were  to  be  found  in  every  nook  and  corner  of  her 
domain.  In  the  spring  you  looked  for  grass  only;  and 
lo!  starting  up  at  your  feet,  like  the  unexpected  joys  of 
life,  came  the  golden  daffodil,  the  paler  narcissus,  the 
purple  iris,  and  the  red  and  yellow  tulip,  flourishing  as 

265 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

bravely  as  in  the  soil  of  its  native  Holland;  and  for  a 
few  sunny  weeks  the  front  yard  would  be  a  great  flower 
garden.  Then  blossom  and  leaf  would  fade,  and  you 
might  walk  all  summer  over  the  velvet  grass,  never 
knowing  how  much  beauty  and  fragrance  lay  hidden  in 
the  darkness  of  the  earth.  But  when  I  go  back  to  Aunt 
Jane's  garden,  I  pass  through  the  front  yard  and  the 
back  yard  between  rows  of  lilac,  syringas,  cal  yean  thus, 
and  honeysuckle;  I  open  the  rickety  gate,  and  find 
myself  in  a  genuine  old-fashioned  garden,  the  homely, 
inclusive  spot  that  welcomed  all  growing  things  to  its 
hospitable  bounds,  type  of  the  days  when  there  were 
no  impassable  barriers  of  gold  and  caste  between 
man  and  his  brother  man.  In  the  middle  of  the  garden 
stood  a  "summer-house,"  or  arbor,  whose  crumbling 
timbers  were  knit  together  by  interlacing  branches  of 
honeysuckle  and  running  roses.  The  summer-house 
had  four  entrances,  opening  on  four  paths  that  divided 
the  ground  into  quarter-sections  occupied  by  vegetables 
and  small  fruits,  and  around  these,  like  costly  embroid 
ery  on  the  hem  of  a  homespun  garment,  ran  a  wide 
border  of  flowers  that  blossomed  from  early  April  to 
late  November,  shifting  from  one  beauty  to  another  as 
each  flower  had  its  little  day. 

266 


THE    GARDENS    OF    MEMORY 

There  are  flower-lovers  who  love  some  flowers  and 
other  flower-lovers  who  love  all  flowers.  Aunt  Jane 
was  of  the  latter  class.  The  commonest  plant,  striving 
in  its  own  humble  way  to  be  sweet  and  beautiful,  was 
sure  of  a  place  here,  and  the  haughtiest  aristocrat  who 
sought  admission  had  to  lay  aside  all  pride  of  place  or 
birth  and  acknowledge  her  kinship  with  common  hu 
manity.  The  Bourbon  rose  could  not  hold  aside  her 
skirts  from  contact  with  the  cabbage-rose;  the  lav 
ender  could  not  disdain  the  companionship  of  sage 
and  thyme.  All  must  live  together  in  the  concord  of  a 
perfect  democracy.  Then  if  the  great  Gardener  be 
stowed  rain  and  sunshine  when  they  were  needed,  mid 
summer  days  would  show  a  glorious  symphony  of 
color  around  the  gray  farmhouse,  and  through  the  en 
chantment  of  bloom  and  fragrance  flitted  an  old 
woman,  whose  dark  eyes  glowed  with  the  joy  of  living, 
and  the  joy  of  remembering  all  life's  other  summers. 

To  Aunt  Jane  every  flower  in  the  garden  was  a 
human  thing  with  a  life  story,  and  close  to  the  summer- 
house  grew  one  historic  rose,  heroine  of  an  old  romance, 
to  which  I  listened  one  day  as  we  sat  in  the  arbor, 
where  hundreds  of  honeysuckle  blooms  were  trumpet 
ing  their  fragrance  on  the  air. 

267 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

"Grandmother's  rose,  child,  that's  all  the  name  it's 
got,"  she  said,  in  answer  to  my  question.  "I  reckon 
you  think  a  fine-lookin'  rose  like  that  ought  to  have  a 
fine-soundin'  name.  But  I  never  saw  anybody  yet 
that  knew  enough  about  roses  to  tell  what  its  right 
name  is.  Maybe  when  I'm  dead  and  gone  somebody '11 
tack  a  French  name  on  to  it,  but  as  long  as  it  grows  in 
my  gyarden  it'll  be  jest  grandmother's  rose,  and  this 
is  how  it  come  by  the  name : 

"My  grandfather  and  grandmother  was  amongst  the 
first  settlers  of  Kentucky.  They  come  from  the  Old 
Dominion  over  the  Wilderness  Road  way  back  yonder, 
goodness  knows  when.  Did  you  ever  think,  child, 
how  curious  it  was  for  them  men  to  leave  their  homes 
and  risk  their  own  lives  and  the  lives  of  their  little 
children  and  their  wives  jest  to  git  to  a  new  country  ? 
It  appears  to  me  they  must  'a'  been  led  jest  like  Colum 
bus  was  when  he  crossed  the  big  ocean  in  his  little 
ships.  I  reckon  if  the  women  and  children  had  had 
their  way  about  it,  the  bears  and  wildcats  and  Indians 
would  be  here  yet.  But  a  man  goes  where  he  pleases, 
and  a  woman's  got  to  foller,  and  that's  the  way  it  was 
with  grandfather  and  grandmother.  I've  heard  mother 

O  O 

say  that  grandmother  cried  for  a  week  when  she  found 

208 


THE    GARDENS    OF    MEMORY 

she  had  to  go,  and  every  now  and  then  she'd  sob  out, 
'I  wouldn't  mind  it  so  much  if  I  could  take  my  gyarden.' 
When  they  began  packin'  up  their  things,  grandmother 
took  up  this  rose  and  put  it  in  an  iron  kittle  and  laid 
plenty  of  good  rich  earth  around  the  roots.  Grandfather 
said  the  load  they  had  to  carry  was  heavy  enough  with 
out  puttin'  in  any  useless  things.  But  grandmother 
says,  says  she:  'If  you  leave  this  rose  behind,  you  can 
leave  me,  too.'  So  the  kittle  and  the  rose  went.  Four 
weeks  they  was  on  their  way,  and  every  time  they  come 
to  a  creek  or  a  river  or  a  spring,  grandmother'd  water 
her  rose,  and  when  they  got  to  their  journey's  end, 
before  they'd  ever  chopped  a  tree  or  laid  a  stone  or 
broke  ground,  she  cut  the  sod  with  an  axe,  and  then 
she  took  grandfather's  huntin'  knife  and  dug  a  hole 
and  planted  her  rose.  Grandfather  cut  some  limbs  off 
a  beech  tree  and  drove  'em  into  the  ground  all  around 
it  to  keep  it  from  bein'  tramped  down,  and  when  that 
was  done,  grandmother  says :  '  Now  build  the  house  so's 
this  rose'll  stand  on  the  right-hand  side  o'  the  front 
walk.  Maybe  I  won't  die  of  homesickness  if  I  can  set 
on  my  front  doorstep  and  see  one  flower  from  my  old 
Virginia  gyarden.' 

"Well,  grandmother  didn't  die  of  homesickness,  nor 
269 


AUNT   JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

the  rose  either.  The  transplantin'  was  good  for  both 
of  'em.  She  lived  to  be  n'nety  years  old,  and  when  she 
died  the  house  wouldn't  hold  the  children  and  grand 
children  and  great-grandchildren  that  come  to  the 
funeral.  And  here's  her  rose  growin'  and  bloomin' 
yet,  like  there  wasn't  any  such  things  in  the  world  as 
old  age  and  death.  And  every  spring  I  gether  a  basket 
ful  o'  these  pink  roses  and  lay  'em  on  her  grave  over 
yonder  in  the  old  buryin'-ground. 

"Some  folks  has  family  china  and  family  silver  that 
they're  mighty  proud  of.  Martha  Crawford  used  to 
have  a  big  blue  and  white  bowl  that  belonged  to  her 
great-grandmother,  and  she  thought  more  o'  that  bowl 
than  she  did  of  everything  else  in  the  house.  Milly 
Amos  had  a  set  o'  spoons  that'd  been  in  her  family  for 
four  generations  and  was  too  precious  to  use;  and  I've 
got  my  family  rose,  and  it's  jest  as  dear  to  me  as  china 
and  silver  are  to  other  folks.  I  ricollect  after  father 
died  and  the  estate  had  to  be  divided  up,  and  sister 
Mary  and  brother  Joe  and  the  rest  of  'em  was  layin' 
claim  to  the  claw-footed  mahogany  table  and  the  old 
secretary  and  mother's  cherry  sideboard  and  such 
things  as  that,  and  brother  Joe  turned  around  and  says 
to  me,  says  he: 

270 


THE    GARDENS    OF    MEMORY 

"Is  there  anything  you  want,  Jane?  If  there  is, 
speak  up  and  make  It  known.'  And  I  says:  'The  rest 
of  you  can  take  what  you  want  of  the  furniture,  and  if 
there's  anything  left,  that  can  be  my  part.  If  there 
ain't  anything  left,  there'll  be  no  quarrelin';  for  there's 
jest  one  thing  I  want,  and  that's  grandmother's  rose.' 

"They  all  laughed,  and  sister  Mary  says,  'Ain't  that 
jest  like  Jane?'  and  brother  Joe  says,  says  he: 

"You  shall  have  it,  Jane,  and  further  than  that,  I'll 
see  to  the  transplantin'.' 

"That  very  evenin'  he  come  over,  and  I  showed  him 
where  I  wanted  the  rose  to  stand.  He  dug  'way  down 
into  the  clay  —  there's  nothin'  a  rose  likes  better,  child, 
than  good  red  clay  —  and  got  a  wheelbarrer  load  o' 
soil  from  the  woods,  and  we  put  that  in  first  and  set 
the  roots  in  it  and  packed  'em  good  and  firm,  first  with 
woods'  soil,  then  witli  clay,  waterin'  it  all  the  time. 
When  we  got  through,  I  says:  'Now,  you  pretty  thing 
you,  if  you  could  come  all  the  way  from  Virginia  in  a 
old  iron  kittle,  you  surely  won't  mind  bein'  moved  from 
father's  place  to  mine.  Now  you've  got  to  live  and 
bloom  for  me  same  as  you  did  for  mother.' 

"You  needn't  laugh,  child.  That  rose  knew  jest 
what  I  said,  and  did  jest  what  I  told  it  to  do.  It  looked 

271 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

like  everything  favored  us,  for  it  was  early  in  the  spring, 
things  was  beginnin'  to  put  out  leaves,  and  the  next  day 
was  cloudy  and  cool.  Then  it  began  to  rain,  and 
rained  for  thirty-six  hours  right  along.  And  when  the 
sun  come  out,  grandmother's  rose  come  out,  too.  Not 
a  leaf  on  it  ever  withered,  and  me  and  my  children  and 
my  children's  children  have  gethered  flowers  from  it  all 
these  years.  Folks  say  I'm  foolish  about  it,  and  I 
reckon  1  am.  I've  outlived  most  o'  the  people  I  love, 
but  I  don't  want  to  outlive  this  rose.  We've  both 
weathered  many  a  hard  winter,  and  two  or  three  times 
it's  been  winter-killed  clean  to  the  ground,  and  I  thought 
I'd  lost  it.  Honey,  it  was  like  losin'  a  child.  But 
there's  never  been  a  winter  yet  hard  enough  to  kill  the 
life  in  that  rose's  root,  and  I  trust  there  never  will  be 
while  I  live,  for  spring  wouldn't  be  spring  to  me  without 
grandmother's  rose." 

Tall,  straight,  and  strong  it  stood,  this  oft  trans 
planted  pilgrim  rose;  and  whether  in  bloom  or  clothed 
only  in  its  rich  green  foliage,  you  saw  at  a  glance  that 
it  was  a  flower  of  royal  lineage.  When  spring  covered 
it  \vith  buds  and  full  blown  blossoms  of  pink,  the  true 
rose  color,  it  spoke  of  queens'  gardens  and  kings' 
palaces,  and  every  satiny  petal  was  a  palimpsest  of  song 

272 


and  legend.  Its  perfume  was  the  attar-of-rose  scent, 
like  that  of  the  roses  of  India.  It  satisfied  and  satiated 
with  its  rich  potency.  And  breathing  this  odor  and 
gazing  into  its  deep  wells  of  color,  you  had  strange 
dreams  of  those  other  pilgrims  who  left  home  and 
friends,  and  journeyed  through  the  perils  of  a  trackless 
wilderness  to  plant  still  farther  westward  the  rose  of 
civilization. 

To  Aunt  Jane  there  were  three  epochs  in  a  garden's 
life,  "daffodil  time,"  "rose  time,"  and  "chrysanthe 
mum  time";  and  the  blossoming  of  all  other  flowers 
would  be  chronicled  under  one  of  these  periods,  just 
as  we  say  of  historical  events  that  they  happened  in  the 
reign  of  this  or  that  queen  or  empress.  But  this  garden 
had  all  seasons  for  its  own,  and  even  in  winter  there  was 
a  deep  pleasure  in  walking  its  paths  and  noting  how 
bravely  life  struggled  against  death  in  the  frozen  bosom 
of  the  earth. 

I  once  asked  her  which  flower  she  loved  best.  It 
was  "daffodil  time,"  and  every  gold  cup  held  nepenthe 
for  the  nightmare  dream  of  winter.  She  glanced 
reprovingly  at  me  over  her  spectacles. 

"It  appears  to  me,  child,  you  ought  to  know  that 
without  askinY'  she  said.  "Did  you  ever  see  as  many 

273 


AUNT   JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

daffydils  in  one  place  before?  No;  and  you  never  will. 
I've  been  plantin'  that  flower  every  spring  for  sixty 
years,  and  I've  never  got  too  many  of  'em  yet.  I  used 
to  call  'em  Johnny-jump-ups,  till  Henrietta  told  me 
that  their  right  name  was  daffydil.  But  Johnny-jump- 
up  suits  'em  best,  for  it  kind  o'  tells  how  they  come  up 
in  the  spring.  The  hyacinths  and  tulips,  they  hang 
back  till  they  know  it'll  be  warm  and  comfortable  out 
side,  but  these  daffydils  don't  wait  for  anything.  Before 
the  snow's  gone  you'll  see  their  leaves  pushin'  up 
through  the  cold  ground,  and  the  buds  come  hurryin' 
along  tryin'  to  keep  up  with  the  leaves,  jest  like  they 
knew  that  little  children  and  old  women  like  me  was 
waitin'  and  longin'  for  'em.  Why,  I've  seen  these 
flowers  bloomin'  and  the  snow  fallin'  over  'em  in  March, 
and  they  didn't  mind  it  a  bit.  I  got  my  start  o'  daffydils 
from  mother's  gyarden,  and  every  fall  I'd  divide  the 
roots  up  and  scatter  'em  out  till  I  got  the  whole  place 
pretty  well  sprinkled  with  'em,  but  the  biggest  part  of 
'em  come  from  the  old  Harris  farm,  three  or  four  miles 
down  the  pike.  Forty  years  ago  that  farm  was  sold, 
and  the  man  that  bought  it  tore  things  up  scandalous. 
He  called  it  remodelin',  I  ricollect,  but  it  looked  more 
like  ruinin'  to  me.  Old  Lady  Harris  was  like  myself; 

274 


THE    GARDENS    OF    MEMORY 

she  couldn't  git  enough  of  these  yeller  flowers.  She 
had  a  double  row  of  'em  all  around  her  gyarden,  and 
they'd  even  gone  through  the  fence  and  come  up  in  the 
cornfield,  and  who  ever  plowed  that  field  had  to  he 
careful  not  to  touch  them  daffydils. 

"Well,  as  soon  as  the  new  man  got  possession  he 
begun  plowin'  up  the  gyarden,  and  one  evenin'  the 
news  come  to  me  that  he  was  thro  win'  away  Johnny- 
jump-ups  by  the  wagon-load.  I  put  on  my  sunbonnet 
and  went  out  where  Abram  was  at  work  in  the  field, 
and  says  I,  'Abram,  you've  got  to  stop  plowin'  and  put 
the  horse  to  the  spring  wagon  and  take  me  over  to  the 
old  Harris  place.'  And  Abram  says,  says  he,  'Why, 
Jane,  I'd  like  mighty  well  to  finish  this  field  before 
night,  for  it  looks  like  it  might  rain  to-morrow.  Is  it 
anything  particular  you  want  to  go  for  ? ' 

"Says  I,  'Yes;  I  never  was  so  particular  about  any 
thing  in  my  life  as  I  am  about  thirj.  I  hear  they're 
plowin'  up  Old  Lady  Harris'  gyarden  and  throwin'  the 
flowers  away,  and  I  want  to  go  over  and  git  a  wagon- 
load  o'  Johnny-jump-ups.' 

"Abram  looked  at  me  a  minute  like  he  thought  I  was 
losin'  my  senses,  and  then  he  burst  out  laughin',  and 
says  he:  'Jane,  who  ever  heard  of  a  farmer  stoppin' 

275 


AUNT   JANE    OF   KENTUCKY 

plowin'  to  go  after  Johnny-jump-ups  ?     And  who  ever 
heard  of  a  farmer's  wife  askin'  him  to  do  such  a  thing  ?' 

"I  walked  up  to  the  plow  and  begun  to  unfasten  the 
trace  chains,  and  says  I:  'Business  before  pleasure, 
Abram.  If  it's  goin'  to  rain  to-morrow  that's  all  the 
more  reason  why  I  ought  to  have  my  Johnny-jump-ups 
set  out  to-day.  The  plowin'  can  wait  till  we  come 
back.' 

"  Of  course  Abram  give  in  when  he  saw  how  I  wanted 
the  flowers.  But  he  broke  out  laughin'  two  or  three 
times  while  he  was  hitchin'  up  and  says  he:  'Don't  tell 
any  o'  the  neighbors,  Jane,  that  I  stopped  plowin'  to  go 
after  a  load  of  Johnny-jump-ups.' 

"When  we  got  to  the  Harris  place  we  found  the 
Johnny-jump-ups  lyin'  in  a  gully  by  the  side  o'  the 
road,  a  pitiful  sight  to  anybody  that  loves  flowers  and 
understands  their  feelin's.  "\Ye  loaded  up  the  wagon 
with  the  pore  things,  and  as  soon  as  we  got  home, 
Abram  took  his  hoe  and  made  a  little  trench  all  around 
the  gyarden,  and  I  set  out  the  Johnny-jump-ups  while 
Abram  finished  his  plowin',  and  the  next  day  the  rain 
fell  on  Abram 's  cornfield  and  on  my  flowers. 

"Do  you  see  that  row  o'  daffydils  over  yonder  by  the 
front  fence,  child  —  all  leaves  and  no  blossoms  ?" 

276 


THE    GARDENS    OF    MEMORY 

I  looked  in  the  direction  of  her  pointing  finger  and 
saw  a  long  lino  of  flowerless  plants,  standing  like  sad 
and  silent  guests  at  the  festival  of  spring. 

"It's  been  six  years  since  I  set  'em  out  there,"  said 
Aunt  Jane  impressively,  "and  not  a  flower  have  they 
had  in  all  that  time.  Some  folks  say  it's  because  I 
movtxl  'em  at  the  wrong  time  o'  the  year.  But  the 
same  week  I  moved  these  I  moved  some  from  my  yard 
to  Elizabeth  Crawford's,  and  Elizabeth's  bloom  every 
year,  so  it  can't  be  that.  Some  folks  said  the  place  I 
had  'cm  in  was  too  shady,  and  I  put  'em  right  out  there 
where  the  sun  strikes  on  'em  till  it  sets,  and  still  they 
won't  bloom.  It's  my  opinion,  honey,  that  they're  jest 
homesick.  I  believe  if  I  was  to  take  them  daffydils 
back  to  Aunt  Matilda's  and  plant  'em  in  the  border 
where  they  used  to  grow,  alongside  o'  the  sage  and 
lavender  and  thyme,  that  they'd  go  to  bloomin'  again 
jest  like  they  used  to.  You  know  how  the  children  of 
Israel  pined  and  mourned  when  they  was  carried  into 
captivity.  Well,  every  time  I  look  at  my  daffydils  ] 
think  o'  them  homesick  Israelites  askin',  'How  can  we 
sing  the  songs  o'  Zion  in  a  strange  land?' 

"You  needn't  laugh,  child.  A  flower  is  jest  as 
human  as  you  and  me.  Look  at  that  vine  yonder, 

277 


AUNT   JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

takin'  hold  of  everything  that  comes  in  its  way  like  a 
little  child  learnin'  to  walk.  And  calycanthus  buds,  see 
how  you've  got  to  hold  'em  in  your  hands  and  warm  'em 
before  they'll  give  out  their  sweetness,  jest  like  children 
that  you've  got  to  love  and  pet,  before  they'll  let  you  git 
acquainted  with  'em.  You  see  that  pink  rose  over  by 
the  fence?"  pointing  to  a  La  France  heavy  with  blos 
soms.  "Well,  that  rose  didn't  do  anything  but  put  out 
leaves  the  first  two  years  I  lad  it.  A  bud  might  come 
once  in  a  while,  but  it  would  blast  before  it  was  half 
open.  And  at  last  I  says  to  it,  says  I,  'What  is  it  you 
want,  honey  ?  There's  somethin'  that  don't  please  you, 
I  know.  Don't  you  like  the  place  you're  planted  in, 
and  the  hollyhocks  and  lilies  for  neighbors  ? '  And  one 
day  I  took  it  up  and  set  it  between  that  white  tea  and 
another  La  France,  and  it  went  to  bloomin'  right  away. 
It  didn't  like  the  neighborhood  it  was  in,  you  see.  And 
did  you  ever  hear  o'  people  disappearin'  from  their 
homes  and  never  bein'  found  any  more  ?  Well,  flo\vers 
can  disappear  the  same  way.  The  year  before  I  was 
married  there  was  a  big  bed  o'  pink  chrysanthemums 
growin'  under  the  dinin'-room  windows  at  old  Dr, 
Pendleton's.  It  wasn't  a  common  magenta  pink,  it  was 
as  clear,  pretty  a  pink  as  that  La  France  rose.  Well,  I 

278 


THE    GARDENS    OF    MEMORY 

saw  'em  that  fall  for  the  first  time  and  the  last.  The 
next  year  there  wasn't  any,  and  when  I  asked  where 
they'd  gone  to,  nobody  could  tell  anything  about  Yin. 
And  ever  since  then  I've  been  searchin'  in  every  old 
gyarden  in  the  county,  but  I've  never  found  Ym,  and  I 
don't  reckon  I  ever  will. 

"And  there's  my  roses!  Just  look  at  Ym!  Every 
color  a  rose  could  be,  and  pretty  near  every  kind  there 
is.  Wouldn't  you  think  I'd  be  satisfied  ?  But  there's  a 
rose  I  lost  sixty  years  ago,  and  the  ricollection  o'  that 
rose  keeps  me  from  bein'  satisfied  with  all  I've  got. 
It  grew  in  Old  Lady  El  rod's  gyarden  and  nowhere  else, 
and  there  ain't  a  rose  here  except  grandmother's  that  I 
wouldn't  give  up  forever  if  I  could  jest  find  that  rose 
again. 

"I've  tried  many  a  time  to  tell  folks  about  that  rose, 
but  I  can't  somehow  get  hold  of  the  words.  I  reckon 
an  old  woman  like  me,  with  little  or  no  learnin',  couldn't 
be  expected  to  tell  how  that  rose  looked,  any  more'n  she 
could  be  expected  to  draw  it  and  paint  it.  I  can  say  if 
was  yeller,  but  that  word  'yeller'  don't  tell  the  color  the 
rose  was.  I've  got  all  the  shades  of  yeller  in  my  garden, 
but  nothin'  like  the  color  o'  that  rose.  It  got  deeper 
and  deeper  towards  the  middle,  and  lookin'  at  one  of 

279 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

them  roses  half-opened  was  like  lookin'  down  into  a 
gold  mine.  The  leaves  crinkled  and  curled  hack  to 
wards  the  stem  as  fast  as  it  opened,  and  the  more  it 
opened  the  prettier  it  was,  like  some  women  that  grow 
better  lookin*  the  older  they  grow,  —  Mary  Andrews 
was  one  o'that  kind, —  and  when  it  comes  to  tellin'  you 
how  it  smelt,  I'll  jest  have  to  stop.  There  never  was 
anything  like  it  for  sweetness,  and  it  was  a  different 
sweetness  from  any  other  rose  (Jod  ever  made. 

"I  ri collect  seein'  Miss  Penelope  come  in  church  one 
Sunday,  dressed  in  white,  with  a  black  velvet  gyirdle 
'round  her  waist,  and  a  bunch  o'  these  roses,  buds  and 
half-blown  ones  and  full-blown  ones,  fastened  in  the 
gyirdle,  and  that  bunch  o'  roller  roses  was  song  and  ser 
mon  and  prayer  to  me  that  day.  T  couldn't  take  my 
eyes  off  'em;  and  I  thought  that  if  Christ  had  seen  that 
rose  growin'  in  the  fields  around  Palestine,  he  wouldn't 
'a'  mentioned  lilies  when  he  said  Solomon  in  all  his 
glory  was  not  arrayed  like  one  of  these. 

"I  always  intended  to  ask  for  a  slip  of  it,  but  I  waited 
too  long.  It  got  lost  one  winter,  and  when  I  asked  Old 
Lady  Elrod  about  it  she  said, 'Mistress  Parrish,!  cannot 
tell  you  whence  it  came  nor  whither  it  went.'  The  old 
lady  always  used  might}*  pretty  language. 

280 


THE    GARDENS    OF    MEMORY 

"Well,  honey,  them  two  lost  flowers  jest  haunt  me. 
They're  like  dead  children.  Yon  know  a  house  may  he 
full  o'  livin'  children,  but  if  there's  one  dead,  a  mother'll 
see  its  face  and  hear  its  voice  above  all  the  others,  and 
that's  the  way  with  my  lost  flowers.  No  matter  how 
many  roses  and  chrysanthemums  I  have,  T  keep 
seeiif  Old  Lady  Elrod's  yeller  roses  danglin'  from 
Miss  Penelope's  gyirdle,  and  that  bed  o'  pink  chrys 
anthemums  under  Dr.  Pendleton's  dinin'-room  win 
dows." 

''Each  mortal  has  his  Carcassonne!"  Here  was  Aunt 
Jane's,  but  it  was  no  mailer  for  a  tear  or  even  a  sigh. 
And  I  thought  how  the  sting  of  life  would  lose  its 
venom,  if  for  every  soul  the  unattainable  were  embodied 
in  nothing  more  embittering  than  two  exquisite  lost 
flowers. 

One  afternoon  in  early  June  I  stood  with  Aunt  Jane 
in  her  o-arden.  It  was  the  time  of  roses;  and  in  the 

o 

midst  of  their  opulent  bloom  stood  the  tall  white  lilies, 
handmaidens  to  the  queen.  Here  and  there  over  the 
warm  earth  old-fashioned  junks  spread  their  praver- 
ru<>'s,  on  which  a  worshiper  might  kneel  and  offer 
thanks  for  life  and  spring;  and  towering  over  all,  rows 
of  many-colored  hollyhocks  flamed  and  glowed  in  I  lie 

281 


AUNT    JANE    OF    KENTUCKY 

light  of  the  setting  sun  like  the  stained  glass  windows 
of  some  old  cathedral. 

Across  the  flowery  expanse  Aunt  Jane  looked  wist 
fully  toward  the  evening  skies,  beyond  whose  stars  and 
clouds  we  place  that  other  world  called  heaven. 

"I'm  like  my  grandmother,  child,"  she  said  pres 
ently.  "I  know  I've  got  to  leave  this  country  some  day 
soon,  and  journey  to  another  one,  and  the  only  thing 
I  mind  about  it  is  givin'  up  my  gyarden.  When  John 
looked  into  heaven  he  saw  gold  streets  and  gates  of 
pearl,  but  he  don't  say  anything  about  gyardens.  I 
like  what  lie  says  about  no  sorrer,  nor  cryin',  nor  pain, 
and  God  wipiiv  away  all  tears  from  their  eyes.  That's 
pure  comfort.  But  if  I  could  jest  have  Abram  and  the 
children  again,  and  my  old  home  and  my  old  gyarden, 
I'd  be  willin'  to  give  up  the  gold  streets  and  glass  sea 
and  pearl  gates." 

The  loves  of  earth  and  the  homes  of  earth!  No 
apocalyptic  vision  can  come  between  these  and  the 
earth-born  human  heart. 

Life  is  said  to  have  begun  in  a  garden;  and  if  here  was 
our  lost  paradise,  may  not  the  paradise  we  hope  to  gain 
through  death  be,  to  the  lover  of  nature,  another  garden 
in  a  new  earth,  girdled  by  four  soft-flowing  rivers,  and 

282 


THE    CiARDKXS    OF    MEMORY 

watered  by  mists  {hat  arise  in  the  night  to  fall  on  the 
face  of  the:  sleeping  world,  where  all  wo  plant  shall 
grow  unblighted  through  winterless  years,  and  they 
who  inherit  it  go  with  white  garments  and  shining  faces, 
and  say  ;:t  morn  and  noon  and  eve:  My  soul  is  like  a 
watered  garden? 


W_    £    s.,-  ••    WK  • 

•~»'&Z'>fft*1ljfc"i-  4 

''X^i*?^'r-t'        '^fc;W^ 


:'~' 


. 
'I/     bW*^~     ''Jk    • 

/''•  .*.•*   ' 


A     000758453     5 


Univ 

a 


